


A Dozen Roses

by LadyBookwormWithTeeth



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awkwardness, F/M, Flirting, Hair Pulling, Infidelity, Masturbation, Rumbelle - Freeform, Rumbelle AU - Freeform, Sex Toys, Spanking, UST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-01 14:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 66,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4022767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBookwormWithTeeth/pseuds/LadyBookwormWithTeeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex toy designer Mr. Gold meets with sex toy tester Belle French.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Rhys found himself looking at the clock every five minutes, counting down to lunchtime. Belle usually came at lunchtime, when the pawnshop was empty. That way, they didn’t have to worry about his customers walking in on a private conversation, or worse.

The moment she finally pranced into the shop, fifteen minutes past twelve, he had to take a deep breath to keep his heart under control because she was already looking at him _that_ way, with her big, bright eyes full of expectations. She was curious. She had been curious ever since he called her to say he had something new to show her.

“Miss French, always on time,” he said, his voice pleasant and giving nothing of his own excitement away.

She smiled and practically leaned over the counter. “Mr. Gold, good afternoon. How’s your son?”

Rhys could have brushed that away and gone straight to business, as it was his usual way of dealing with people. Chitchat, as far as he was concerned, was a waste of time. Besides, he wanted nothing more than to see her face when she saw it. He was sure Belle would love it.

But then again, it was so much better when she asked for it.

“Can I have it now, Mr. Gold?”

God, those few words had haunted his mind ever since her last visit. Such a sweet voice. And yet, so pleading.

He decided that entertaining Belle with trivialities about Bae’s college life wouldn’t be the worse thing. In return, he asked about her fiance. Did she tell him about her, how did she put it? Her “secret identity” as a tester? No? Well, that was too bad. Had they set the date yet? Also no?

Out loud, he said, “What a pity.” Though he knew by now that she’d delay that marriage for as long as it was humanly possible. Or at least, that was his impression. Or his hopes.

She dropped her voice to a whisper. “What have you got for me this time?”

Was that flirtatious? Probably not. But he could twist it into a flirt, play with it in his mind.

Keeping his face as straight as he could, he took a long velvet box from under the counter and placed it in front of her. He had tied a red bow around the black velvet, just to add some drama to it. He had noticed that Belle appreciated that sort of thing, that it made her feel somehow special, as if he had been working not for Jefferson and the fat checks he presented him with, but to please her, in every sense of that word.

“This looks promising,” she said, pulling the long satin strip to untie the ribbon. It was unnecessary to do it so slowly, but she enjoyed the anticipation. Maybe he should put some thought into that the next time. Something to keep her waiting. Something pretty.

When she opened the box, her eyebrows shot up and a little smirk made way to the corner of her mouth. Amused, she said, “You know, when men give me flowers, it’s usually a dozen roses.”

“This _is_ a rose.”

“Not a dozen, though.”

“Greedy.”

That brought a little color to her cheeks, but she laughed, far from being uncomfortable.

“This is beautiful,” she said, taking the new toy in her hands and trying its weight. Probably also thinking of the many ways she could put it to use, but if Rhys thought about that too hard, he wouldn’t be functional for the rest of the day.

Belle had been influencing his creations in one way or another for the past year, be it by submitting thorough reports, be it because he couldn’t think of any other woman using them but her. But this one was different. This he had made because she loved roses, and he wanted to give her a special one.

He had designed the rose on top of a long glass wand, molded to be as realistic as it could without making it uncomfortable. Its edges were round and the size was just right for her – or at least, that was what he concluded, judging by her previous feedback. Its diameter grew as it got closer to the base, but the head was still a little thicker than the rest. Should require a little effort, but once inside, it should fit her like a glove.

“This is absolutely beautiful,” she repeated, her eyes shining as she marveled at the glass rose. “I could keep it on my bed stand and Gaston would have no idea.”

Rhys thought of her fiance. He still had no idea what the young man looked like but, in his mind, he was a twenty something brute with a small dick and a stupid looking face that left no doubts about his stupid looking brain. The idiot would probably walk into her bedroom and comment on the weird figurine she bought somewhere. Belle would roll her eyes and brush it off as an impulsive buy at Ikea. If Gaston was the idiot she made him out to be, he’d believe her without a second thought. Then, all she’d have to do was wait for him to leave. Then she’d give that wand a proper try.

Would the waiting be as exciting as everything else? Possibly. Probably. He could almost picture her, listening to the idiot as he went on about his day, as self-absorbed as always. Meanwhile, her mind absently traveling back to her bedroom, where her rose awaited. By the time she kissed him goodnight and locked the door, she’d be more than eager. But she wouldn’t want to hurt herself now, would she? Better slow down, toy with herself first, get her body ready with nothing but her fingers, pushing them slowly inside, testing her own wetness. All the time, eyes firmly on that tall glass rose, standing over her on her bed stand. _Towering_ over her, filling her mind with fantasies and making her impatient. When she finally wraps her slippery fingers around it, it still requires _just_ a little bit of effort to get it inside, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep it interesting-

“You should get Jefferson to add that to the description.”

Rhys blinked and cleared his throat. Right. Jefferson. Think of Jefferson. That usually helped.

“What should we add?” he asked.

“Good for women with controlling fiances.”

“Yes. Yes. We should add that,” he nodded. “A very discreet toy. Is the weight right?”

“I think it’s perfect. Good size too. But I’ll get into that in my report. Although, as far as I’m concerned, this is ready to be marketed for aesthetics alone. You outdid yourself, Mr. Gold.”

Rhys tried not to smile too proudly, but failed miserably. “Thank you, my dear. It was a lot of work, but I believe it paid off.”

She giggled. “You should give your inventions a try some day. I feel like you’re left with all the work, and I get all the fun.”

He blinked at her, processing what she had just said. Then, he eyed the rather large glass dildo in her hands.

_She thinks I’m a homosexual. Great._

Something must have shown on his face because her smile died and she rushed herself to say, “I’m sorry! Are you asexual? I didn’t mean to assume things.”

_She thinks I don’t like sex. Even greater._

“I-” he started, not really sure what to say next.

Belle saved him the embarrassment by saying, “You know what, it’s none of my business. I’ve taken up enough of your time.” She placed the wand back inside the box carefully, and then shoved the box as fast as she could inside the oversized bag she always carried with her.

Rhys tried to think of something to say. Something that would portray him as very sexual, very straight and, preferably, very good in bed.

By the time he was done unfreezing his brain, she was already saying, “I’ll email you my report. As always. I, uhn, I’m sure it will be fun. Okay. Uhn. See you, Mr. Gold.”

She left the shop so fast he barely had time to say, “Yes, see you, Miss French. Bye. Have a good day. Give my regards to your fiance.”

The door closed before that last one was fully out of his mouth.

Thank god.

Rhys waited for her to vanish on the other side of the window before banging his glass against the glass counter.

_Idiot. Idiot. Idiot._

_I’m straight, actually_. That would have been a great reply. No offense taken. No looking like a perfect moron having a stroke.

_In fact, I’m very straight._

_Very, very straight._

_Let me prove it to you by taking you out for dinner._

_Or to the back of the shop so we can give this rose a proper try._

_Idiot. Idiot. Idiot!_

The glass on the counter was starting to rattle dangerously, so he forced himself to stop and lie there quietly for a few seconds, hating himself.

Though he had no idea what Gaston would sound like, it was his voice that crept up into his mind to whisper, “Who’s the one with the stupid looking brain now?”


	2. Roped Up (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little background for sex-artisan!Gold. Milah is a bitch. Jefferson is a pervert. Gold is permanently frustrated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a tiny ficlet about Gold and Belle meeting for the first time. I got carried away and had to split this in two parts. Belle shows up in part II. Also, I’m sorry if my knowledge of shibari rope and rope manufacturing is off, but research only goes so far.

As far as he was concerned, Jefferson was to blame for everything that was wrong in his life – namely, an unhealthy obsession with a girl young enough to be his daughter. Had he known life would turn out like this, he’d have stayed away from him and his shop the moment he made enough money to pay for a good divorce lawyer.

In fact, that had been his original plan, back when getting custody of Bae was his greatest concern. Milah had gone to college and had a steady job at a law firm as a secretary. As for himself, even after splitting their assets all he’d be left with would be the broken pawnshop he had inherited from his mother, half of the apartment, and half their debts to pay. He had no formal education and his income was far from reliable. If Milah wanted to keep Bae with her in Killian’s apartment, there was nothing he could do about it.

In the midst of chaos, Jefferson seemed like an answer sent from heaven. Granted, a very perverted heaven, but nonetheless.

At the time, he thought Jefferson was one of those eccentric rich men you hear about but never seem to meet in real life. He couldn’t imagine what kind of rich man activity he did that demanded so much cotton rope, but he came into his shop every week to look for just that. Rhys, who was using the spinning wheel in the back room even more often to handle the insomnia, held back his curiosity the best he could and thanked his rotten luck that his useless hobby was finally paying off.

Curiosity got the best of him when Jefferson came up to his counter and asked, “So, is there any chance you could dye some cotton rope for me?”

Rhys stared at him with tired eyes. He had spent most of the night shouting with Milah over the phone over visitation arrangements. As far as she was concerned, he’d be lucky to see Bae every other month.

“A man who doesn’t pay child support is not much of a father to begin with,” she had said.

Child support was his priority. It was also the reason his lawyer was threatening to drop his case, since he couldn’t afford a son and legal representation at the same time.

“Mr. Gold?” Jefferson repeated his question.

“What color do you want?” Rhys asked, absent minded. A few hours at the wheel would do him well.

“Yes, about that. Could you come up with a sort of palette?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Jefferson’s eyes fell on the basket of skeins Rhys kept next to the register. Those usually sold well, though they were so cheap it barely showed in his monthly income. He picked a few colorful options. A few shades of blue, green and red.

“How about these colors? And a black one. I want to try them out.”

Rhys took a look at his customer. A slender man in his late twenties, well dressed in suits that had been tailored to his body, very different from the old, rumpled three piece Rhys had inherited from his dad and was a very poor fit. His nails were manicured and his hands looked soft and clean. This wasn’t a man who did manual labor and if he had to fix something in his house – something that demanded a rainbow of cotton rope – he wasn’t going to do it himself.

Rhys went as far as to toy with the idea that Jefferson Hats was a serial killer who hanged women in his basement, and now he wanted his victims to look pretty. Would there be a reward for his arrest? With his luck, the police would probably arrest _him_ as an accomplice.

“How long do you need them to be?”

“Regular 30 feet is fine. Actually, make the purple one 50 feet. I’m already in love with this color.”

Rhys made some math. That was enough to secure the lawyer for another month.

“Right,” he nodded. “Right. Eleven 30 feet cotton rope skeins, one 50 feet in purple. I need a week. I need to buy the-” The question came out before he could stop himself. “Why do you even _need_ twelve skeins of cotton rope?”

“Yours is the best!” Jefferson said, as if that was a suitable answer. “I think some friends might enjoy it.”

“Enjoy… rope,” Rhys repeated, struggling to make sense of it.

Jefferson bit his lips and leaned closer. “Are you familiar with shibari?”

“Can’t say that I am.”

“It’s a form of Japanese bondage.”

The word made him blink and frown. Rhys knew what Jefferson was saying, knew what that word meant. And yet, that only raised more questions than answers.

“You’re tying people with my rope?” he asked, and his face must have looked horrified, because Jefferson laughed.

“Well, to put it mildly, yes. Good rope. Very soft on the skin.”

Rhys rolled his eyes. Eccentric rich guy with a kinky sex life. He should have guessed.

“Does that offend you?”

“As long as you pay, you can use it to hang dead bodies, for all I care,” Rhys said, but his eyes were focused on receipt he was preparing for Jefferson. He waited for his cheeks to feel a little less heated before handing it over.

“I’m into a lot of things, Mr. Gold, but necrophilia is not one of them,” he laughed. “You know, if my friends like it, I might actually order more rope in the future.”

Rhys answered with a neutral, “Yes, we’ll see.” He had no idea if selling rope for kinky rich people to spice up their sex lives would look good on a custody battle. Though he was sure the money couldn’t hurt.

He paid the lawyer and gave Jefferson what he wanted.

It didn’t take him three days to come back, slam his hands on the counter and give him a smile full of mischief. “How would you like to be my supplier?”

“Supplier of what? Cotton rope?” Rhys asked, eyes on the clock he was trying to fix. He didn’t want to look at Jefferson’s face and imagine him putting the product to use. It had been hard enough to keep his mind from wondering too much about how the whole thing even worked and how did the Japanese learn to tie people in a way that was sexy.

“We’ll have to start calling them shibari rope, if you don’t mind,” Jefferson said. “Looks better on the package. Makes it look more professional.”

Rhys looked up.

“Mr. Gold’s Handmade Shibari Rope, available in all colors. How do you feel about it?”

“Like you should get a real job. Selling sex rope is no career for a young man.”

Jefferson laughed at that, making Rhys roll his eyes and go back to his clock. Mr. Gold’s Handmade Shibari Rope, what a joke.

But then Jefferson slid a business card next to his elbow and waited patiently for the other man to stop being stubborn and read it. There was a drawing of a purple top hat on one side; underneath it, golden letters spelled _Mad Hatter’s_. On the other side, Jefferson Hats’ name in black block letters, a phone number, an email, and a website.

“What is this?” Rhys asked.

“My store.”

“You have a store that sells rope?”

“No! That would be silly!” he chuckled. “I have a store that sells sex products.”

“Because _that_ is not silly at all,” Rhys said, trying to sound as dry as he could to cover his own discomfort.

Jefferson, however, looked so at ease with the subject it was unnerving. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, laughing again. “So, what do you say? I’m ready to place a big order right now.”

“How big?”

Jefferson told him and, for a moment, Rhys couldn’t speak. He had spent two days bent over that old clock, hoping it could be sold for fifty dollars if it was fixed. Jefferson was offering way more for him to actually do something he enjoyed. Something that wouldn’t hurt his back, his eyes or his hands. Something that would keep his lawyer happy and Milah off his back for a couple of weeks.

He could actually see Bae again.

“So what do you say?” Jefferson pressed.

“It can’t have my name on it.”

“Don’t be shy. You’re really talented and there is nothing to be ashamed of-”

“I’m in the middle of a custody battle. It will look bad on me.”

He expected Jefferson to laugh it off and call him a prude. Instead, he hissed his teeth. “My sentiments. I’ve been there. No, you’re right. It won’t help your case.”

Rhys tapped the card on the counter. “I really need this money.”

“I can imagine.”

“I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t.”

He shrugged. “We all gotta live, right?”

It didn’t sound like a good idea. Milah would find out and bring it up in court. Or worse! Bae would find out and start asking him questions. The thought of giving his son The Talk, followed by questions about Japanese bondage and sadomasochism in general, was terrifying.

Besides, he was far from being comfortable with it himself. To spend hours making rope and knowing it’d be used _that_ way… But he was desperate.

He shook Jefferson’s hand, took the money and closed the shop for the rest of the week to focus on the task at hand. He dyed the wool, spun the yarn, twisted it into rope. All the time, he tried not to think too much about Jefferson’s grin, or what could be the difference between Japanese bondage and regular bondage, or what kind of sex people were having nowadays that seemed to be so unlike the sex he had during his marriage.

Unlike it and, apparently, better.

Not that being better was all that hard.

Right before Milah gave up and left, sex felt nothing like it used to when they first got married, when they were both young and enthusiastic about this unfamiliar territory and thought that sloppily groping each other was the best it’d ever get. Around the time Bae was seven, it went from something fun to something Rhys did to pretend their marriage was still, if not happy, at least normal. It was mechanical, a replay of everything they knew to be quick and effective so they wouldn’t feel uncomfortable for long. Kiss on the mouth, kiss on the neck, fumble with her nipples, oral sex, hand job, penetration, orgasm – though that had become optional towards the end. Relief that it was over was more common than a climax.

Milah looked bored most times, but she still approached him every other week suggesting sex because that was what regular couples did, as far as she was concerned, and she was stubborn. But then again, who was he to judge? He only went along with it so he wouldn’t give father dearest the satisfaction of knowing Rhys was just as inept as a husband as old Malcolm had been to his mother. Fucking his motionless wife every other week was a small price to pay for proving the old man wrong.

Truth be told, had she been one of those wives that never initiated sex, Rhys might actually have been happier. The pressure of having to perform for her once every two weeks just made everything worse. Not to mention that she was clearly using him like a dildo, with her eyes screwed shut, lost in another land, where her husband was not huffing and puffing on top of her and she was probably bedding someone way more attractive.

He knew the moment she stopped asking for sex that she had taken on a lover, but Rhys hadn’t been worried at the time. Bae was thirteen. In four more years he’d be gone to college and they’d be free to go their separate ways. Until then, he’d look away and pretend to be happy for Baelfire’s sake. He had been doing it for the past six years anyway. That Milah had another man bruised his ego, but didn’t hurt nearly as much as he thought it would.

What hurt was coming home to find out she had moved in with her lover, and taken their son with her, a decision that had very little to do with maternal love. Bae could be a very useful pawn to get Rhys to do what she wanted and she would not walk away from their marriage without causing as much damage as she could. She had seven years of misery to make him pay for and Milah could be vicious when she wanted to.

On the third day of making rope, she phoned to demand an explanation on why his shop had been closed for three days in a row and why hadn’t he been working? Resisting the urge to yell it was his own bloody business, Rhys told her he had been commissioned to fix a clock and that someone was paying him good money to dedicate himself to that task exclusively.

“Who?”

“Some rich guy.”

“How much are they paying you?”

“Enough.”

“But how much?”

Rhys enjoyed the frustration in her voice. It was a nice change of pace. “Tell you what, I’ll pick up Bae from school tomorrow and bring him home after dinner. Then I can tell you all about it.”

She scoffed. “Nice try.”

“Well then, I guess you’ll never know.”

She growled softly on the other side of the line. Then, she said, “Fine. Bring him home by seven.” And hung up.

Rhys still gave her the wrong figure the next day, half of what he was truly making. She made snide remarks about wasting time on a pointless task, but he endured everything with a smirk that drove Milah absolutely crazy. At least for now, he wouldn’t have to worry about child support or lawyers or legal fees.

His relationship with Milah had become so complicated and the whole divorce procedure was being so unpleasant that, when it finally came to an end, Rhys was surprised at how simple and anti-climatic the whole thing was. He had to thank her lover for it. Killian, who had lost his hand while serving in the army, decided to invest his army pension in a boat to sail the world. But you can’t do that with a thirteen-year-old. Suddenly, Bae wasn’t useful anymore, quite the opposite.

Rhys would have been angry at how disposable the boy was to Milah, if he wasn’t overjoyed at having his son back. Milah was gone and they were ready to move on with their lives as soon as Rhys was able to rent a small apartment – which, due to Jefferson’s constant orders, didn’t take long.

“They are selling like water!” he said, overjoyed. “You’re a genius!”

Well, at least he was good at something. And at least he was finally making money to support his son.

Rhys’ plan was to save up as much as he could with the shibari rope and then go back to being a regular pawnbroker. A respectful profession. Something that didn’t involve people getting tied up. If there was enough money, he’d renovate the place, make it look a little less “old and creepy”, as Milah had often put it.

Jefferson’s shop, on the other hand, was so bright and beautiful it was enough to make him envious. He had expected it to look like an old pornographic movie set, or a torture chamber. Instead, he had decorated the _Mad Hatter’s_ with white walls, strong lights, and purple shelves where a variety of products was displayed. Not that he gave those more than a passing glance.

Instead, he focused on the purple hamper where his rope was being kept, each individually bagged and labeled, “Rumpelstiltskin’s Shibari Rope”.

“You said I couldn’t use your real name, so don’t give me that look,” Jefferson said, counting the skeins Rhys had brought him.

“You didn’t have to get so creative,” Rhys said, tapping his fingers on his cane and waiting for Jefferson to be done.

Despite the name, he couldn’t deny the rope looked beautiful in the hamper. In fact, the whole shop was much more appealing and a lot less intimidating than he first thought it would be.

“You should browse.”

“I’m good,” he answered, curtly.

“C’mon,” Jefferson smirked, leaving the skeins aside and looking at him. “What are you into?”

“I’m in a hurry, that’s what I am.”

“I’ll give you a discount. Oh! Maybe your son would like something.”

Rhys looked disgusted. “He’s _thirteen_!”

“I have some very respectful magazines with illuminating articles on women’s empowerment. And nudity. You’d be a cool dad.”

“Oh, god…”

“Besides, I fiercely believe children should learn this sort of thing in the house-”

“If I browse the shop, will you shut up?”

Jefferson took an imaginary key to his lips and locked them before throwing it away.

Rhys groaned, but walked away.

“Have fun, Rumpelstiltskin.”

Much to Jefferson’s surprise, Rhys came back to the counter carrying a package. Rope from another shelf.

“Make your own rope, _Rumple_ ,” Jefferson chuckled. “Or don’t you believe in mixing business and pleasure?”

Rhys ignored him. “This is worth twice as much as mine.”

Jefferson shrugged. “So?”

“Why is it worth twice as much as mine?”

Jefferson shrugged again. “It’s hemp rope.”

“It says shibari rope.”

“There are many types of shibari rope.”

“What’s so special about hemp that you can charge twice as much?”

“It’s better for suspension.”

“You _suspend_ people?”

“Seriously, Rhys, you ought to have googled shibari by now.”

“Why can’t you suspend people with cotton rope?”

“Cotton slips too easily.”

Rhys looked at the bag in his hand. “I could work with hemp.”

“But you don’t.”

“But I could. And I’d make a much better job than this asshole.”

Jefferson laughed. “It’s cute that you’re jealous of my hemp rope supplier.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, Rumple. You’ll always be the best cotton rope I was ever tied with.”

“Shut up. I’m taking this.”

He threw the rope on the counter.

“What? Why?”

“Research!”

Jefferson’s eyes sparkled. “Oh! If you’re going to do research, take this!” He rushed to a nearby shelf where several books were exposed and came back with a very thin volume.

_BDSM, For Starters._

Rhys shook his head. Jefferson always found new ways to make him feel uncomfortable.

“You need it,” Jefferson insisted, when Rhys looked ready to take the rope and run. “Chapter five is all about bondage. Also, I’ll email some useful websites.”

That wasn’t how Rhys had planned to spend his evening. But if hemp rope, or whatever kind of rope, paid more, he’d gladly learn about it and start working on it. The bills were piling up and, wherever it was that Milah had run away to, she was clearly not interested in sending Bae any money.

From ropes to leather was a quick step. Jefferson’s fault, as always. The little perv couldn’t learn of anything that Rhys could do (“Really? You sewed this? It’s really well made.”) without thinking of sex (“How about leather, Rumple? I need the words _Evil Queen_ in red sewed into a leather blindfold.”), and Rhys always agreed.

Rhys couldn’t remember at which point he went from “reluctantly agreeing” to “volunteering and offering opinions”. It was probably around the same time he met Regina, Jefferson’s business partner. There was something about the way that woman looked at him, as if he was nothing but a lowly employee who should be glad to be working for them, that made him want to show her just how indispensable he could be.

He was also not sure when the whole thing stopped being uncomfortable. Not before two years, he clearly remembered being horrified when Jefferson shoved edible underpants in his face, asking, “Do you think it tastes funny?” and that had been within the first couple of years. But after _that_ , he could take anything with a straight face. Hell, he could fight Regina over what kind of flogger caused more damage to the skin and he didn’t even have to make them - or try them, for that matter.

Jefferson nagged him about that sometimes, usually when he came up with something that looked particularly beautiful, or something that proved to be exceedingly effective.

“It breaks my heart that you never try these things yourself, Rumple. Surely there must be _something_ you like.”

Rhys usually replied to that with a shrug. “It’s business. There’s nothing sexy about business.”

Except there was. Quite a lot of sexy things about business.

Jefferson had fed him loads of research material over the years. As far as sex went, Rhys had read and watched and learned about every range one could think about, from the scary shit he wouldn’t go anywhere near with a ten feet pole, to the things that were actually quite appealing.

The fact that he had waited twenty two years for the right person only to be stuck in a bad marriage, having sex twice a month because he had to, always in the same position, always glad it was over, only to end up divorced, alone and helping other people improve their own sex lives, well, he wouldn’t say it was killing him. But it was pretty damn close.

There had been other women since Milah, none a really good match and nothing he’d like to repeat in the future. Regina’s mother had been a particularly bad decision, made to spite her more than anything; it had hurt so much when Cora called their affair off that it was almost comical. Add a broken heart to the sexual frustration and Rhys decided being a full time father and business man would be a less complicated choice.

Besides, he really shouldn’t complain. He had the most beautiful son in the world and business was growing, which meant he was not only able to afford a good house, he didn’t have to worry about paying for Bae’s college anymore.

Life was good.

Who needed sex anyway?

Who needed love?


	3. Roped Up (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, frustrated Mr. Gold with an active imagination. If you’d like a reference for what Belle tried, here it is: http://40.media.tumblr.com/657e03c18cef5c7b40f426f9eac494c1/tumblr_mt7bc7N7rF1s1hnvbo1_1280.jpg. And because my wonderful beta was very adamant about it, self-bondage can be dangerous, so rest assured Belle had her hands free and a pair of scissors at her side the whole time.

Jefferson, of course, screwed up a perfectly good life by introducing him to Belle French. Though, to be fair, Rhys had practically begged him to.

Regina, who had the bad habit of thinking too big, decided that providing custom made sex toys was good money, but they could do much better if they mass produced their most popular items. Rhys had been against the idea, claiming that buying one of a kind products was what their clients came to them for in the first place. If they wanted regular, mass produced sex toys, their shop had enough of them already. A heated discussion followed and was settled when Jefferson took Regina’s side.

“I’m not saying yes just yet. But there’s no harm in seeing what people think of some of our products. Get some feedback.”

Rhys didn’t like the idea of feedback one bit. It was hard enough to please one client with something that had been tailored to suit their very specific taste. To please a dozen would probably require a lot of change, not to mention fighting Regina over petty details. But, as Regina put it, they didn’t pay him to make the decisions, they paid him to do as he was told. She gave him a list of products she thought would sell well and he spent the next couple of weeks getting them ready.

When the reports were finally submitted, a meeting was set at Jefferson’s place. Wine was poured, pleasantries were exchanged reluctantly, and finally they sat down to talk business.

It wasn’t a surprise to discover all items had received mostly positive reviews. It was also not a surprise that Regina wanted to make small modification on everything.

“The lace handcuffs got a resounding yes,” Regina said, smiling from ear to ear. “So that’s a go. But we need to make them available in more colors.”

“They’ll look tacky in other colors,” Rhys argued.

“I’m not asking you to make them canary yellow!”

Most of their time was spent debating color, texture and, more importantly, who’d be responsible for making large quantities of everything, since Rhys clearly couldn’t handle a large order of one particular item, plus the rope, plus the special requests they got regularly.

“Besides, you’ve been getting creative, lately,” Jefferson added. “Your time would be better spent doing research and coming up with new things.”

Rhys didn’t really care for who’d sew fifty leather blindfolds or carve the words _Boy Pussy_ in hundreds of wooden paddles. That was for Regina and Jefferson to worry about and, quite frankly, he wasn’t nearly as  protective of his designs as they thought he was. If someone wanted to tie his girlfriend’s wrists with baby pink lace, that was their problem. But if playing the jealous mad genius gave him a bigger part of the sales, he could play the part and demand a considerable raise on his usual rate.

By the time the meeting was over, Regina looked like she hated him even more, but that was one of the perks of this job.

That, and a generous commission.

“I do think it’s a pity to let someone else touch the collars,” Jefferson said, once everything was settled. “You know how I feel about them.”

“Unfortunately, I do. Though I wish I could forget,” Rhys said, skimming some reports himself and making little mental notes he’d never share with Regina out loud. He might not like feedback, but he’d be stupid to ignore it completely. “Who are these people?”

Regina answered, “A very diverse group of men and women from several cultural backgrounds, age and sexualities.”

Jefferson said, “But mostly college students. Kinky bunch.”

“Figures. Anything else?”

Jefferson said “No,” at the same time Regina smiled and answered with a delighted “Yes.”

Rhys looked at them. “Yes or no? Speak fast, I have to go home and feed _my_ college student.”

“You had a bad review,” Regina said, trying to sound sorry, but not looking sorry at all.

“It was one bad review and it was nothing,” Jefferson said, glaring at Regina.

“I can handle _one_ bad review, Jefferson,” Rhys said, impatient.

“Yes, Jefferson,” Regina said, handing over the report. “Rumple’s a grown man. He can handle _one_ bad review.”

All reports he had gone over had been extremely detailed, but this one consisted of a regular sheet of paper, blank except for five words on top: _The cotton rope was itchy_.

He cocked his head at Regina. She smiled at him sweetly.

“That’s it?”

“That’s enough.”

“That’s one _review_ , Rumple. No need to spend time worrying about it,” Jefferson said.

“Why was the cotton rope even on the list?” Rhys asked.

“We threw it in as a bonus,” Regina said. “Cheap stuff and all.”

Rhys glared at her, but reached for his cane and pulled himself up, announcing, “If everybody's done wasting my time, I have to make dinner. Goodnight.”

There was no doubt that Regina had given out the cotton rope on the odd chance someone would detest it. She didn’t care much for the rope, cotton or otherwise, and had often told Jefferson that Rhys’ time would be better spent working on other things. But Rhys used the spinning wheel regularly and the yarn would be made anyway, there was no point in simply leaving it lying around.

But this wasn’t her trying to prove a point. This was Regina being difficult. She wanted to show him he wasn’t as great as Jefferson made him out to be, and she had chosen the perfect way: by attacking the thing that had started him on this new career and that he _knew_ he was good at.

The worst part was that it was working.

Itchy. His rope was not _itchy_! He made a point at making it soft and comfortable for the skin. There was nothing itchy about it. What kind of peach skinned person had tried it? Were they allergic? If that was the case, they shouldn’t be allowed to review it in the first place. He wasn’t protective of his creations. He really wasn’t. But nobody insulted his  handcraft skills, as pathetic as that might sound.

It took him three days of mulling over the subject and trying to push it aside, until he finally gave up and called Jefferson. When he picked up, he didn’t waste time with a pointless greeting.

“Who tried the shibari cotton rope?”

Jefferson groaned. “I knew it would get to you.”

“It didn’t get to me. I’m just curious.”

“Regina wanted to mess with your head and now she did it.”

“She didn’t mess with my head.”

“It’s Regina, Rhys! She’s just being a bitch for sport. There is nothing wrong with your rope.”

“I want to talk to the tester.”

“Rhys...”

“You said feedback would be good.”

“So this guy doesn’t like your rope, so what?”

“Well, I’d like to know why.”

“Because people are different! If it helps, I never liked the lace handcuffs all that much.”

“Yes, but you don’t like girly things. What is this guy’s excuse?”

“Who cares?”

“I care!”

“Listen, even if I thought this would do you any good, _which I don_ _'_ _t_ , I couldn’t tell you who he or she is. It was an anonymous survey.”

“Regina knows it.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

Rhys didn’t say another word and allowed Jefferson to ponder on what he had just said.

“Fine!” he finally answered. “She knows _everything_ , I get it. She won’t tell you, though. Not when she can have the pleasure of torturing you with it.”

Rhys was ready to start yelling that Jefferson call Regina _immediately_ _or else_ , when Baelfire came from behind him and took the phone from his hand. He said, “Hey, Jeff, you know these two will have a major diva out if you let them. Yeah.” He chuckled. “Yeah, they are. Anyway, his cooking is suffering significantly with this rope crap. Can’t you do me a favor and just get him in touch with whoever this person is? I’m _starving_.”

“Stop being lazy and cook by yourself, if you hate my food so much,” Rhys grumbled.

“Okay,” Bae nodded, but clearly not at what he had said. “Okay, thanks, man.” He hung up. “He’ll have their name in a couple of days.” When his father stared, Bae simply shrugged. “He doesn’t want me to go hungry. You’re welcome, by the way.”

*

Jefferson did as he was asked. But because it was Jefferson, he couldn’t simply put him in touch with that picky reviewer so that Rhys could bark at them a little and demand explanations. Instead, a tiny brunette showed up in his shop three days later, interrupting a very disappointing lunch break. Bae was right, that bad review was affecting his cooking.

She knocked on his door. Despite being a few feet away, hunched over the counter, trying not to think too much about how soggy the carrots were, he didn’t look up and let her figure out the “closed” sign by herself. She knocked again and he snapped, “We open at one.”

When she didn’t insist, he thought he had gotten rid of her. But after a minute of silence, came a tap on the window. Rhys looked through the trinkets and saw a pair of blue eyes trying to find him.

“Are you Mr. Gold?” asked a youthful voice.

“Yes, but I’m afraid the shop’s closed,” he said, looking back at his tasteless stew. “Come back in an hour.”

“Jefferson sent me!” she shouted from the other side of the window. “He said you wanted to talk to me. I tested one of your products.”

Rhys got up so fast the stew almost flew to the floor – wouldn’t have been much of a waste, though. His cane was forgotten, which meant his ankle would be complaining for the rest of the day, but he didn't care, he didn't slow down.

He opened the door and she extended her hand, saying, “Hello, my name is Belle French.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, looking equally confused and terrified.

She frowned, making tiny wrinkles appear on the corner of her eyes. Rhys placed her around the same age as Bae.

“I told you, Mr. Gold,” she said. “Jefferson sent me. He said you wanted to talk about my review.”

“I only wanted your number.”

She blinked at him, as if trying to make sense of his strange behavior.

“Are you busy? Should I come back later?”

“No,” he said, very annoyed. “It’s fine. You’re here anyway.” He shook the hand she was still offering him and pulled her inside.

Belle looked around as he locked the door again. “What a charming shop you have.”

“Thank you,” he answered, absent minded, too busy thinking of ways to murder Jefferson without getting caught. The bastard knew he didn’t like people to know what he did for a living.

“I’m surprised, really,” she continued. “When i think sex artisans, I don’t think pawnbrokers.”

He replied with a distracted mumble, as he put the stew away and searched for the cane that had fallen on the floor in his hurry to get to the door.

She smiled. “Which one is your hobby?”

“Pardon?”

“Between your two jobs. Which one is your hobby?”

“Uhn... Nothing ever sells here, so I guess this one.”

“I can’t see why not,” she said, examining one of the glass counters. “I bet everything here has amazing history.”

“Nobody is interested in buying history, I suppose.”

With the cane finally in hand, he moved behind the counter, where he felt more comfortable, and allowed her to browse the shop.

“Tell me about it. My fiance got my ring from Tiffany's.” She lifted her hand to indicate the large stone on her delicate finger. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. But I suppose my taste is a bit more vintage.”

“Is he the genius who doesn’t know how to use shibari rope?”

She lowered her hand. “Ah, that. I was told this was an anonymous survey.”

“Yours was the only negative feedback. We got curious.”

“We?”

Rhys didn’t correct himself. Yes, she was there because of his particular insecurity and stubbornness, but the hell he was going to admit that out loud.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Mr. Gold.”

“Your review was rather vague about it.”

“I can’t really be more detailed than ‘the rope was itchy’.”

“It makes no sense to me, that is all. Nobody ever complained about my rope before.”

Belle shrugged. “People are different.”

“And, in seven years, I've only met _one_ person who doesn’t like my rope?”

“Seems like good numbers to me.”

He stared at her, but she didn’t look down.

“What did you try?”

It was quite an intrusive question, but he asked it with a clinical seriousness. He expected her to take a step back and start screaming, “Excuse me! What I do with my apparently wealthy fiance with your itchy rope is none of your business, you perverted old man!”

Instead, she replied, “I tried a simple body harness.” And she looked straight into his eyes as she said it, as if challenging him to judge her.

He made an effort not to clear his throat or give away any other sign of discomfort at the mental image that elicited. He had seen quite a few variations of body harnesses during his research, none of them he'd classify as “simple”, so his mind jumped to the one that seemed to be photographed the most. The one that started with the rope around the neck and worked its way down a woman's body, highlighting the breasts, then her waist, then her hips... What color had Regina given her?

“I'm assuming you wore it,” he said, his voice even, despite the thoughts in his head. “Not your...” he motioned to the engagement ring. A Tiffany's engagement ring, nonetheless, that had left her utterly unimpressed. Talk about hard to please.

“I did it myself.”

His eyebrows shot up. “That can’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t. I also wish it hadn’t been itchy.”

Whatever image he was building in his head of Miss French struggling to tie her naked form (a small form, granted, but slender and gracious) with a long piece of blue cotton rope, it shattered at the sound of that word and he glared at her. Belle seemed pleased.

“Maybe you pulled the ropes too hard,” he argued.

“I didn’t,” she responded, with such simplicity it was irritating.

“But maybe you did.”

“But I didn’t. Trust me, when you have rope against your delicate parts, you mind your pressure.”

He was running out of options and that new piece of information wasn't helping where brain power was concerned, so he just snapped, “Then you must be allergic to cotton!”

She frowned. “Come again?”

“That is the only explanation,” he insisted. “I’m sorry, but I refuse to believe that hundreds of people have tried my cotton rope without a single complaint and you-”

“I didn’t try the cotton rope.”

Rhys blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“It was hemp.”

“Your review was very clear about cotton rope.”

“Was it?” she frowned. “Because I remember Miss Mills asking ‘how was the shibari rope’ and me answering ‘it was itchy’. That was the extent of my participation.”

Conflicting emotions flooded Rhys all at once. Mostly, overwhelming relief that his work was still unstained by a bad review. Anger towards Regina for so effectively messing with his head, of course, he felt that in large doses. And also a tiny bit of shame for wasting the young lady’s time in a pointless discussion because his ego had been bruised so easily.

“It seems that Miss Mills forgot to put that in the report.”

“Oh,” she said. “So we’re good?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, looking very displeased. “Hemp _is_ more itchy than cotton. Some people like that.”

“And my assessment was accurate?”

“Yes,” he admitted, reluctantly. “Yes, it was probably accurate.” He smirked. “However vague.”

She smirked back at him. “One just can’t win with you, can they?”

“Rest assured I’ll give Miss Mills _hell_ for wasting both of our times. And, uhn...” he looked around. “Wait here.”

He went into the back of the shop and looked at the basket of cotton rope he had prepared for Jefferson. A multitude of colors. He reached for the baby blue, thinking her fiance might appreciate the fact that it matched her eyes. But then again, she had mentioned she had done all the work herself, so maybe he wasn’t aware of it. And that vivid yellow would actually look much better against her complexion and dark hair.

“For your troubles,” he said, handing over the rope. “Real cotton this time. Much easier on the skin.”

The rope was tied around itself in a tight bundle. Belle could only go as far as to wrap a loose strand around her finger. He was right. It looked beautiful against the color of her skin.

“Does feel a lot better,” she said. “I’m optimistic. Where should I submit my report?”

He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “There’s no need, really.”

“No, I’d like to. I mean, it’s only fair you get a second try.”

He nodded. “Yes. You do have a point.” He scribbled down his email, and then Jefferson’s. “As a PDF file, if you can. There’s no need to mention this to Miss Mills.”

“Alright.” She squeezed the rope inside her purse and extended her hand. “Mr. Gold, it was nice to meet you.”

“You too, Miss French.”

Rhys followed her with his eyes until she was gone from the shop, her chin held proudly high as she pranced on top of impossibly high heels. Phenomenal legs too.

Lucky fiance.

Pushing aside the thought of a long line of yellow knots outlining her legs and storing that for later, he sighed, and called Jefferson.

“Before you bite my head off,” Jefferson said, “you’re the one who said you wanted to meet her. I hope it wasn’t _too_ embarrassing.”

Rhys ignored him and said, “Guess who tampered with the reports.”

Jefferson didn’t say a word for a moment. Then, he exploded, “You have got to be _fucking_ kidding me! I am going to _murder_ her!”

*

He thought that watching Jefferson rip Regina a new one would be amusing to watch, but what followed was one of the worst screaming matches Rhys had ever witnessed in his life. Taking into consideration his parents’ stormy marriage, that was saying something. It was a miracle that their partnership survived Jefferson calling her a manipulative bitch with a god complex, and Regina throwing her money in his face and shouting she was the only reason his shop was thriving to begin with. But, he supposed, they were both very practical and logical people. Without Jefferson’s connections and business skills, Regina’s money would make no difference, and without her financial support, he might as well close the _Mad Hatter’s_ and kiss full custody of his daughter goodbye.

It took them three weeks of mutual silence and Rhys constantly pointing those things out to each of them (the hell he was going to start applying in other sex shops at this point of his life), but they eventually came around from that radical idea of “breaking up their partnership” and agreed that Jefferson and Rhys would handle surveys from there on, while Regina would still have a final say on their products and manufacturing.

Belle’s report came in midst of all the trouble, which provided a nice break from the drama. Even though she had emailed a copy to Jefferson, she directed the report to him:

 

_Dear Mr. Gold,_

_I see now why you are so proud of your cotton rope. It is a wonderful product. It feels soft on the skin, not at all prickly, and the marks disappeared much more quickly than with the hemp rope. I tried the same full body harness, and I’m glad to say it was a much more pleasurable experience, not to mention the color looked beautiful once I had it on. It was also much easier to handle than the hemp, both for tying and untying, which is a big concern when you’re doing that sort of thing by yourself._

_I’d definitely recommend this to other people._

_And I’d definitely try it on other colors, if you have it._

_In case you have any other questions, please, don’t hesitate to ask._

_Respectfully,_

_Belle French_

 

As soon as he reached the end of her email, Rhys had a big smile on his face. He should have Jefferson frame it and hang it in the shop. A testimony of his undeniable ability.

“She’s good,” Jefferson agreed, later on. “That is way more thorough than I expected.” And just because the universe had a funny way of messing with him, Jefferson added, “We should send her more stuff.”

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	4. Professional Exchanges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jefferson tries to be a good friend. More often than not, Rhys doesn’t let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex toy designer Mr. Gold meets with sex toy tester Belle French.  
> Whole fic rated EXPLICIT. This chapter rated MATURE.

_Dear Miss French,_

_It seems to me that we parted on awkward terms after our last meeting. I just wanted it to be clear that you said nothing to offend me. If I seemed shocked at your question was because the glass rose was originally designed to please a woman’s body, and isn’t as suitable for a man. Therefor, it makes no sense for me to “give it a try”, as you put it._

_I’d also like to clarify that I am not asexual, or homosexual for that matter, and that you shouldn’t be embarrass to even ask me that. We’ve known each other long enough and that wouldn’t make me uncomfortable._

_If you ever have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. It is only expected that we have an open and honest relationship, since we work together._

_Sincerely,_

_R. Gold_

 

Rhys read his unnecessarily long email for the tenth time. He had spent most of last night trying to come up with something that would portray him as laid-back and approachable, but every time he read it, it made him feel like a dirty old man trying to reassure an affianced young woman of his heterosexuality.

Belle was not stupid. She’d know of his interest immediately, and then would think back on every single conversation they ever had and see him for the pervert he truly was, giving her sex toys while filling their innocent exchanges with innuendos. She’d probably tell Jefferson. Or get a restraining order.

God, he was pathetic. There was no fixing this. Better stay as her asexual/homosexual sex toy provider. It wasn’t like he ever had a chance to begin with. She was engaged, and if there had ever been any flirting between them (which he doubted), it was probably because she flirted with everybody. It was her way to have some harmless fun. He was nothing special.

“You’re sighing.”

Rhys pocketed the cellphone and turned back to Jefferson, who was sorting through the pile of requests to put the priorities on top.

“I’m tired,” he answered.

“That’s not the tired sigh,” Jefferson said. “That’s the troubled sigh. What is it? Women or Bae?”

“I said I’m tired,” he growled through gritted teeth.

Jefferson nodded. “Women it is. Good for you. It’s been a while. I know what the answer is going to be, but do you want to talk about it?”

“I am late, Jefferson, and you’re stalling.”

“Thought so. Oh, and speaking of women with a firm grip on your heart, did you notice Belle is late this month?”

Rhys turned a slow glare at him.

Jefferson shrugged. “What? I’m talking business. It’s not usual for her to be late.”

That was true. Belle was extremely reliable on her reports. If she got something on Friday, there would be a report coming in on Monday morning so Rhys could talk it over with Jefferson and start ironing out the problems over the week. But it was already Wednesday and she hadn’t said a word. Probably because Rhys had creeped her out with all the staring and awkward silence.

Out loud, he said, “Maybe she had other issues to tend to.”

“What did you give her this time?”

Rhys looked for the picture on his phone and showed it to Jefferson.

Jefferson let out a short whistle. “That’s the weirdest surrogate for your own penis you’ve made so far.”

Rhys shushed him and looked around to see if any of his clients had overheard that particular comment. The shop was packed as always, but no one had even looked up, too caught up examining random products.

“Why do I bother talking to you?” he snapped.

“It’s a beauty, don’t get me wrong,” Jefferson said. “I’d love to have them on every shelf. But why a rose?”

“Why not a rose? Women like roses.”

“That they do,” he said, but gave him a look full of suspicion.

Jefferson was very perceptive, he ought to know Rhys had made that especially to suit Belle’s preferences. He had been nagging him about Belle the moment Rhys decided to start working with glass.

“Is that because you think we’re losing a valuable niche of the market,” Jefferson had asked, “or because you know Belle likes to play by herself?”

Rhys had angrily asked if Jefferson was questioning his professionalism, which was probably what gave him away. Gaston didn’t know of her activities and there was only so much Belle could do with handcuffs and leather harnesses. To give her something to use without having to rely on someone else was his way to keep her interested and constantly coming back for more.

And, if he were to be completely honest with himself, Jefferson was right. It was the closest to fucking her that he’d ever get.

“Excuse me?” asked a man at the back of the shop, unashamedly holding up a large plug and interrupting whatever smart-ass comment Jefferson was cooking up. “Do you have a bigger one?”

“I’ll check that for you right now, sir,” Jefferson said.

“Jefferson, c'mon, just give me the orders,” Rhys begged, his eyes avoiding the little man at the back of the shop.

“It will be a second.”

“I hate your shop, you know that!” he said, loudly.

Jefferson was unfazed by that. He replied, “Yup, it’s ironic.” And disappeared behind a door.

Rhys sighed and cursed his sort-of-a-boss quietly. He did hate coming to the shop every two weeks, but Jefferson made it non-negotiable. He liked to talk to Rhys face to face about orders. It was also a great opportunity to introduce him to new products and stir up new ideas. Not to mention Jefferson considered him a friend and knew that, if he didn’t force Rhys out of his pawnshop, they might never interact with each other.

But coming to the shop was always a terrifying experience. The _Mad Hatter’s_ seemed to get all the weird clients, and Jefferson loved for him to interact with them, as a manner of research. He’d probably come back from the inventory empty handed and ask Bigger Plug Guy to describe _exactly_ what he was looking for.

Truth be told, he also didn’t need any more fuel to his imagination. He was trying to kick Belle out of his head – delicate Belle, asking him to be careful with a much smaller plug as he spread her own wetness between her ass cheeks – when his phone beeped with a new message.

Four words that made his heart skip a beat: _That hit the spot._

Rhys arched his eyebrows at his cellphone. Talking about the devil in high heels…

He looked over his shoulder. Jefferson was talking to his client. Not exactly safe, but he was curious. He had been curious for five long days now. So he replied: _What spot?_

Her answer didn’t take long: _All the right ones._

Rhys started smiling slowly.

“Ask her to be more precise.”

He jumped, screaming, “ _Bloody hell_!”

Jefferson laughed. “Did I scare you?”

“By sneaking up on me and whispering in my ear?” Rhys snapped, taking a hand to his chest. “No! Why would that scare me?”

“C'mon, ask her to be more precise. What spots? Is she being metaphorical or literal?”

“You’ll get her report. Go nag her then.”

“Oh. I see. It’s a private message. Sorry.”

“It’s a business message.”

“She just complimented you on the new dildo you made for her, Rumple. That for you is as good as sexting. Actually, that for you is as good as third base.”

Rhys ignored him and looked at the new message: _I will have the report ready by tomorrow morning._

“She said the report will be done tomorrow.”

Jefferson nodded. “It’s a good sign that she can’t put that rose down long enough to write it tonight, I suppose.”

“You do realize that people have things to do, other than masturbating?”

“She did put it down long enough to send _you_ a message,” Jefferson continued, in that teasing voice that was so effective to make his friend turn into a pouting child. “Though you can text with one hand.”

Jefferson was bad for his imagination. And his blood pressure.

The message that followed didn’t help either: _Would you mind if I brought it to your shop?_

He frowned. Belle never brought the reports directly to him. She still addressed them to “dear Mr. Gold”, but they were sent to his email, with a copy to Jefferson’s, always in a detailed, but professional manner.

“What does she want?” Jefferson asked, leaning in.

Rhys took the phone out of his reach. “She wants to know if that’s okay.”

“Sure,” Jefferson shrugged. “Not like I’m paying her anyway.”

Rhys nodded and sent his reply: _Yes. During lunchtime, if you can._

Belle replied: _Perfect. See you tomorrow._ Thus putting an end to the conversation.

Rhys pressed a thumb and forefinger to the corners of his mouth to keep himself from smiling. Jefferson would probably find that suspicious and he’d never hear the end of it. For good measure, he also pocketed the phone again.

But Jefferson had already dropped the subject and was talking business again, “Do you have another rose? We should send it to Ruby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear kinky stuff is coming. Please don’t leave. 
> 
> Also!! The email at the beginning of this chapter was very much inspired by woodelf68 ‘s comment on the first chapter, so thank you darling!


	5. Trust Exercises (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the pawnshop takes an unexpected turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait for Part II before posting this (after all, I did promise spanking), but I’m feeling very insecure about this chapter and I’d appreciate some feedback. Lets call this… pre-spanking. Also, awkward nerds trying not to be inappropriate and failing miserably.

There had to be something wrong. Belle never came into his shop, unless she had to pick something up. Even on the rare occasions a product fell short of her expectations and she wanted to make suggestions, she limited their extensive conversations to emails, something Rhys was grateful for. Belle was quite unapologetic about sex and, as much as he was used to talking with Jefferson about work, he had discovered early in their relationship that his brain didn’t work at full capacity when Miss French was standing in front of him, reciting all the ways a glass dildo could pleasure her better. Exchanging emails might be tedious, but at least the lag gave him time to think clearly.

But the wait was far from helping him think clearly now. He was currently pacing the back of his shop, moving things around and trying to occupy his mind with anything unrelated to that woman and why she could possibly be coming to his shop.

His initial reaction had been of happiness. How could it not? A second visit in less than a week, following a positive review he refused to delete from his cellphone and had read way too many times since the day before.

_That hit the spot._

_All the right ones._

How could something so simple be so arousing? Then again, if he had learned anything from this line of work, was that people were more responsive to the simplest things. The color of rope on skin, the tinkling of a metal leash right before it was yanked, the feeling of drool sliding down one’s chin.

What was most enticing for him was Belle’s pleasure, in any form he could get a glimpse of it.

_That hit the spot._

He’d love to hear it directly from her breathless lips, preferably pressed against his ear, and not on the cold screen of his phone. But that alone would do. He had gone through enough disappointment to learn to accept the small blessings in life and not expect too much out of it.

Which was why something so innocent and apparently positive as a surprise visit from Belle quickly turned into a source of anxiety and dread. Surely there was something wrong. With the flower, or with Belle, it didn’t matter. At best, he’d have to make so many changes it would mess up the rest of his schedule. At worst, she was coming to tell him she’d no longer be testing products for the _Mad Hatter’s_.

But when Belle came into his shop, she walked in the same prance as always, looking radiant in a flowery yellow dress.

Rhys held himself upright and tried to look like his usual self, taking his stance behind the counter, where he felt more secure.

“Miss French,” he greeted, glad to note the casual detachment in his voice. “How nice to see you again so soon.”

“Mr. Gold,” she nodded, offering the smile she always put on for his benefit. It looked just as honest as always. “Are you having a good week?”

“Wonderful. And yourself?”

“It was difficult. It got a lot better yesterday, though,” she said, opening her purse and taking a blue binder out. “I think you’ll be satisfied with what I’ve written.”

“Any pressing concerns?”

“No.”

He didn’t say anything for a second, allowing her to go on and expand that train of thought. When she didn’t, he added, “Nothing? Size, weight? Weirdly shaped as a rose?”

She giggled. Another small thing that made his heart race.

“Size is good, weight is very manageable, and you know I’m not one to complain about ‘weird shapes’,” she said. “It’s good to have an adventure sometimes.”

Belle winked.

She did that sometimes, hoping to give him a heart attack one of these days. Rhys was sure of it.

“So, no negatives?” Rhys said, refusing to acknowledge the little tease. “Nothing to be improved?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it for beginners, I’ve included that on my report. Would be good to let clients know. But other than that, that rose is never leaving my nightstand.”

“I’m very flattered,” he said, with a bow of his head, taking the report from her hand. “I’ll make sure Jefferson gets a copy.”

“I’ve emailed it already.”

He frowned. “And yet, you felt the need to deliver this in person?”

“I thought you might like to hear the good news from my lips.”

_I would. Very much so._

Out loud, he said, “That was very thoughtful of you.”

The hint of flirting in her smile faded, giving way to a solemn look. “Also, I wanted to talk to you in person because I feel that I was very rude last Friday and I need to apologize. I invaded your privacy and that was not my intention.”

Rhys waved a hand at her. “No, it’s fine.”

“You don’t have to say it just to be polite. You looked very… uncomfortable.”

Gaston’s voice came to taunt him with a snickering “told you she noticed, stupid brain!” before he replied with a very unintelligent, “Ah.”

“Which is fine!” she added, hurriedly. “You had all the right. And I got nervous and started babbling and – _oh_ _God_ – I tried to guess your sexuality, that was so-”

“Straight.”

Belle’s face froze with a hapless expression that Rhys could only classify as cute. He tried not to laugh, but a smile made way to his lips despite his efforts to contain it. It was such a rare thing to catch her off guard.

Despite knowing he should feel mortified, he shrugged as if spontaneously volunteering his sexuality was the most natural response to her ranting, and said, “Just so you won’t have to guess anymore.”

After a short beat, she smiled back in that warm way of hers. “And spare us both the embarrassment?”

“And save a good partnership.”

“Alright,” she nodded. “Now I know.”

Her voice was quiet, sounding strangely pleased with the new information, and Rhys felt a surge of courage in his chest, pushing him to say something flirtatious. Something she wouldn’t be able to disregard as their usual, friendly banter.

Gladly, his phone started ringing in the backroom, cutting short whatever embarrassing line he was trying to come up with, and forcing him to say, “I’m sorry, I have to take that.”

He waited for Belle to nod, and then disappeared through the curtain.

He had to move a lot of lace from his work station before finally locating his cellphone.

Bae’s voice greeted him with a, “Whoa! I was about to give up. What took you so long?”

“I was away.”

“Good news for you. My last period was canceled and Tamara is too busy to meet me for lunch, so my schedule is free.”

“And the good news is that your dear father comes _after_ school and girlfriend in your long list of priorities?”

“Don’t nitpick. You’re still before August and Jefferson. You wanna go eat something? You’re paying, of course.”

“Don’t I always?”

“Is that a yes?”

Rhys looked over his shoulder, aiming at the curtain and wondering if Belle would be gone by the time he hung up. But Belle had helped herself to the back of the shop and was currently looking at him, one hand holding the curtain open, and looking ready to leave if he asked her to.

She mouthed, “Sorry, should I…?” and pointed at the door.

Rhys shook his head and mouthed, “One minute.” To Bae, he said, “Sorry, Bae, I’m really busy.”

Bae laughed. “What? Is the shop full of clients or something?”

“More or less.”

“I’d like to see _that_! Want me to bring you something?”

Once again, Rhys looked at Belle, who had moved away from the curtain and was starting to explore the room, giving no indication that she was leaving any time soon.

“I have to finish a lot of things by tonight, Bae. I’d just end up ignoring you. You know how I am with this stuff.”

“You and your work, dad. You need to go out and meet people.”

“I’ll try that tomorrow.”

Bae laughed again. “Sure you will. See you at dinner.”

Rhys answered, “Yes, love you, bye,” and stored the phone inside his breast pocket before turning to Belle. She had her eyes on a set of pink feathers drying on top of a stack of paper towels. He said, “Sorry, my son. He wanted to go get lunch together.”

She looked back at him and smiled. “You seem to have a good relationship.”

“We do. He drives me crazy sometimes, but…” he shrugged. “Kids.”

“How old is he?”

“Almost twenty two.”

“Not a kid, then.”

Rhys couldn’t suppress a hint of sadness in his voice when he answered, “I keep forgetting that.”

“Does he know about…” she indicated the room by eying the many things Rhys had been working on that morning.

“He does.”

“Must have been an awkward conversation.”

“You have _no_ idea.”

She laughed and looked back at the feathers. “Your work is exquisite. You don’t mind if I-”

“No, please, browse. Maybe you’ll find something you like.”

“I see so many things I like already.” She pointed at the pink feathers. “What are you doing with these?”

“I’ve made the quill a bit sharper. Then I dyed them pink. Though, if you ask me, the color makes it look cheap.”

“Nonsense, they’re gorgeous. Why six of them?”

“They feel different on the skin. I’ve been told.”

Though he couldn’t see her face from where he was standing, Rhys could hear a little smirk in her voice as she answered, “You’ve been told.”

He smirked back. “It’s not my job to try things.”

“No, that’s why you have me.”

She looked down longingly, clearly wishing she could pick them up and run the feathers through her fingers. The large, fluffy one would look beautiful sliding down the curve of her neck.

She asked, “Is someone testing this?”

“No. A client ordered it.”

“Another pity,” she sighed. “Not that it’d matter much. It’s not really possible to tickle yourself, is it?”

Before courage escaped him, Rhys took in a deep breath and said, “I guess you’d have to find someone to do that with you.”

Belle turned back again to face him, as if ready to say something, but she stopped herself before her mouth was even open. To cover, she smiled and said, “I guess that’s true.” And moved on to the next table, where a heavy wooden paddle sat unfinished on top of leather and lace. “Same thing for spanking, I suppose.”

“Well, you could…” he started, but stopped when she turned to face him again. He shouldn’t go on. It wasn’t appropriate.

But she insisted, with an eager, “Yes?”

“Do it. Yourself. I mean.”

She held up a hand and shook her wrist, looking disappointed. “I’m really weak. I bet I wouldn’t even bruise. Besides, it’s not the same thing. There seems to be so much more than _hitting_. As far as I was told.”

“Such as?”

The question seemed to surprise himself more than Belle, but he kept his eyes on hers, despite the heat he could feel crawling up his neck.

Belle’s cheeks were starting to color as well, but she didn’t look away when she answered, “I think what’s appealing to me, personally… would be handing control over to someone else. I don’t think _pain_ in and on itself is appealing, but if it’s to… _assert_ someone’s power over…” she bit her lips and finally looked down.

He shook his head in agreement, but couldn’t think of any words to use.

“But I’d have to feel safe,” she added, turning around to look at the paddle. Rhys couldn’t help but look down her spine and at her ass, stripping her of the yellow fabric and wondering what lied underneath it. “It’s not something I’d do with just anyone.”

“Yes,” he replied, absent minded, not really sure of what she had said.

“You think that’s possible?”

He blinked and focused on the back of her head, hoping his brain would follow. “I’m sorry?”

“Letting go so much and still feeling safe with someone?”

His knee-jerk response was to say “no”, but he bit back that answer and allowed himself to think about it. Then, he said, “You’d have to trust your partner.”

“Yes,” she pondered, looking at the paddle. “What about this one? What are you doing with it?”

“Carving. Words.”

Rhys cleared his throat. His mouth felt dry.

“What words?”

“ _Queen’s Pet_.”

She turned and arched an eyebrow.

He shrugged. “People have strange tastes.”

“May I?” she asked, ready to pick it up. When he nodded, she moved it from one hand to the other. “That’s heavier than I thought.”

“It’s not for beginners.”

“What _would_ you recommend to a beginner?”

He stretched his neck to look around the room, then indicated a hemp basket near the curtain where he usually shoved whatever was ready. “The leather one. The-the long one.”

Belle walked to the basket and bent over to pick it up. Rhys made a point at looking at the floor.

The paddle he was talking about was rectangular, made of sturdy leather, but it still bent to a soft curve when she tried it’s flexibility. It had been sewed together in what seemed to be a continuous piece of leather, but the handle was padded and easy to hold. Overall, a very simple design, except for one word spelled in bright blue velvet on the back: Beauty.

Belle said, “Is _cute_ a word people use to describe paddles?”

Rhys decided to take that as a rhetorical question, because he didn’t know what to say.

She continued, “Because this is cute. And rather large. You sure you’d recommend this to someone who has no idea what she’s doing? How about this one?” She picked another paddle from the hemp. Also leather, but shaped as a small racket, hemmed with silver tacks. “Though this might actually be for table tennis.”

She held both paddles up and giggled.

Rhys wanted to share in the joke, but he couldn’t breath.

“It spreads the impact. That one-” he tried to point but felt his hand shaking the moment it left the handle of his cane, so he grabbed it again. “The other one concentrates on a smaller area.”

She settled the small paddle down and went back to playing with the longer one.

Rhys stared stubbornly at the floor, trying to calm his thoughts. Belle was not naive. She was bound to know what her curiosity was doing to him. Yet, she didn’t seem to mind.

Rhys wondered if that was what got her off, teasing men randomly without ever crossing the line that could cost her her engagement – though he doubted Gaston would appreciate their current situation. She could go home to the man she truly loved, with the victory of giving a lonely pawnbroker an erection, just by fooling around with paddles and feathers.

“You really know what you’re doing.”

Rhys stepped back so fast he practically jumped. Her voice was so near he could practically feel her breath on his neck. He hadn’t even seen her come closer. Yet, there she was, blue eyes full of expectation as she waited for him to say something.

“Research,” he answered, still grasping the handle of his cane for dear life.

Belle took another step towards him. As a reflex, he took one back. But he didn’t move his cane, so Belle’s hand landed softly on top of his. First, a caress from the back of her fingers; then, she was taking his hand into her. There was a hint of uncertainty in the back of her eyes as she looked into his; and yet, Rhys had never seen her look so sure before. Whatever fear that was lingering in her mind, it was not due to second guessing her actions, but dreading the way he might react to them.

Rhys felt the urge of holding her hand and bringing her even closer and telling her that everything was alright, that he was flattered and moved and _willing_ to do whatever it was that she wanted. And then kissing her, as slowly as he could, to savor every second of it and making it last until they couldn’t breath anymore.

He moved his fingers, trying to intertwine with hers and set that whole fantasy in motion. When she guided his fingers to wrap themselves around the handle of the paddle, however, any thoughts he had been conjuring in that split second were shattered, leaving nothing but shock in their place.

He looked down at it. The word _Beauty_ in blue velvet stared back at him, and nothing made sense, until Belle’s soft voice said, “I do trust you.”


	6. Trust Exercises (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief negotiation of limits, experimenting with spanking, and no happy endings.

Rhys felt his hand squeeze the handle of the paddle several times, as though trying to determine if it was real or if the whole situation was only happening inside his head. He could feel the leather against his palm, and he could see Belle’s blue eyes staring right into his, that little hint of doubt lingering behind a veil of want – and yet, he didn’t quite believe it just yet.

Belle – sweet Belle, unapologetic Belle, _engaged_ Belle – had shoved a paddle into his hand and was now asking him to _use_ _it_ on her. Because, apparently, she trusted him. Whether that meant she trusted him to respect her limits, or care for her safety, or simply be discreet so that Gaston wouldn’t find out, he didn’t know and he couldn’t care less. If she was really granting him a privilege as great as to act out one of her most intimate fantasies, he would do all these things and more.

Without batting an eye, Belle asked him, “Do _you_ trust me?”

And he answered, “Yes,” without even thinking if that was true.

In _his_ most intimate fantasies, trust was never a word he fumbled with too much, beyond the concept of respecting limits and the occasional thought of aftercare that eased him into sleep. Right now, he decided that treating it with just as much disregard was easier than asking, “What do you mean?” and sitting down for a philosophical discussion.

Despite his voice being barely a whisper, it must have sounded honest enough because the corners of her mouth tried to form a smile, but she was too nervous to go through with it. Instead, she replied with a sigh that inflated her chest and sounded very pleased.

She broke eye contact to look around the room, allowing him a moment to organize his thoughts and think that, maybe, he should refuse her offer. Because, even though theirs was an unusual business arrangement, they still worked together. Regina would be delightfully angry, but Jefferson would never let this one go if he ever found out. Not to mention Belle was in love with someone else. Calling things to a halt nowwas what people tended to label as “the right thing to do” because, at the end of the day, his life would go on as normal no matter what they did in the backroom of his broken pawnshop, but hers could be over.

He was about to say all of that out loud, even though he wasn’t sure exactly how to do that when his throat felt so dry, when Belle spoke again.

“Should we use the cot?”

Before he knew it, all voices in his head were silent and he was stepping back, until his calves met the frame of the bed and he plopped down without another hesitation. Belle came to stand between his knees. Instinctively, his free hand took a hold of hers, which she welcomed.

She started explaining, “This doesn’t mean-”

He didn’t let her finish, “I know.”

This didn’t mean her engagement was off. And it didn’t mean she’d be coming into the backroom of his shop for weekly spankings from now on. It didn’t even mean that they were going to have sex.

It didn’t matter.

Whatever she was ready to offer, he’d gladly take it.

“I think I should say it,” she insisted. “I want it to be clear.”

“You’re not asking for sex,” he said. “And this means nothing.”

“This is far from nothing,” Belle said, a little taken aback that he’d even suggest otherwise. “This means a lot to me. But yes. You’re right. About the sex… part… thing.”

To hear her stumble around the word sex gave him a wicked pleasure, not to mention a rush of relief at the thought of her feeling as nervous as he felt.

“Whatever you want from me, I’m honored to give,” he said, the confidence in his voice sounding strange to his own ears, but seemingly reassuring to hers because that smile she was struggling to form finally broke free. He took a deep breath and said, “Lie across my lap, my dear.”

Belle squeezed his hand the same way Rhys had been squeezing that paddle. Deciding that, yes, this was happening, and yes, he meant every word, she did as she was told. Her movements were cautious, but beautiful to watch as she stretched over his thighs, so dangerously close to the edge of the cot that Rhys wanted to place a hand on her lower back, just to make sure she wouldn’t tumble over. Instead, he grabbed the covers on the cot to make sure his hand didn’t try for any unsolicited touching. She was doing fine on her own.

Once lying in front of him, Belle crossed her ankles, indicating that she was settled, and Rhys allowed himself to look at her legs intently. Starting at the red heels, he worked his way up with his eyes, ending at the hem of her dress as she started pulling it up. Underneath it, she had put on blue lace panties that covered half of her cheeks – and even so, the fabric was so thin if left nothing to the imagination. Her skin was so white and smoothed he wondered just how much of an impact she’d even be able to withstand.

The erection he had been trying to contain for the past few minutes grew underneath the heaviness of Belle’s body. If she could feel it poking her pelvic bone, she did not seem to mind. Or maybe she enjoyed the knowledge of him, helplessly trapped inside his pants, granted nothing but a little friction when she moved.

Her hands tugged at the sides of her panties, but after brief deliberation, she decided to pull the fabric between her cheeks, giving him a larger area without truly exposing herself.

Rhys opened his mouth, ready to order, “Pull your panties down, my dear. I want to see all of you.” Belle might appreciate that. She had just said she wanted someone to _assert_ his power over her, and perhaps she was only teasing him for that end. But then he caught a glimpse of the engagement ring and closed his mouth quickly, sure that, if she wanted to show her pussy to someone other than her fiance, she’d have told him.

As a final touch, Belle twirled her long hair and pulled it over her left shoulder, but he brushed it back and carefully to the other side. The strands felt as smooth as silk.

“I think it’s best if I can see your face,” he said.

“I plan on being very honest, Mr. Gold,” she replied, with a hint of mockery. Still, it was clear that she was endeared by his worry. “You don’t have to fear for my safety.”

“I expect nothing less than blunt honesty from you, Miss French.”

She cradled her head in her arms and looked at him, very serene.

He asked, “May I touch you?”

She worried her bottom lip, but nodded after a moment.

Rhys let go of the paddle and brushed over the skin of her buttocks with the back of his fingers, tracing the line of her panties, then climbing the curve of her ass. Like everything else in her body, it was small, but there was enough for him to grab and squeeze if he felt brave enough. Or better, if she actually requested. But she didn’t, so Rhys limited himself to feeling the softness of her white skin and calculating just how hard he should hit her.

“I should warm you up with my hand,” he said, already breathless.

For the fraction of a second, Rhys got a glimpse of her nerves. Belle squirmed and moved her hips, rubbing against the front of his pants without ever softening the pressure on his erection. She uncrossed her ankles just to cross them again and placed her chin on top of her arms, finding a spot on the wall to fixate on. But then her restless body settled, and she said, “Yes.”

His left hand ran the length of her spine, in what he hoped was a soothing motion. It elicited a sigh from her and he accepted that as an encouragement to proceed.

His right hand turned slowly against her buttock, from back to palm, until every inch of his skin was in contact with hers. His roughness against her softness. She felt like something that he could bruise so easily…

Before he lost his courage, he did as she had asked.

The first slap sounded like a whip to his ears regardless of holding back on his strength, its short-lived echo mixing with the sound of Belle gasping, and he couldn’t decide what was more terrifying, nor more enticing.

Rhys looked at her face attentively, but she buried it in her arms, leaving only the corner of her mouth to be seen. It slowly curled into a smile.

“Do it again,” asked her muffled voice. “You can be a little harder, this time.”

Rhys wished he knew what he was doing beyond what he had learned from countless interviews with people who actually _did_ know what they were doing. Belle was not the first woman to ever ask him for a spank; in fact, being honest about his line of work was guaranteed to result in such request, or, more often than not, awkward dates. However, the few times he had done it, his partner had been too high on sex to do much more than shout instructions, and he had been too horny to do much more than aim more or less right. This was different. To have a woman lie across his lap and entrust him with something so private was much more intimidating, only aggravated by the fact that Belle was still trying her limits. It was so easy to get caught up on endorphins and completely misjudge their boundaries. They were both new to this game, the whole thing could go wrong so fast and so badly.

But when his hand landed heavily on the other cheek, the sharp gasp that escaped her mouth was encouraging.

“Yes,” she rasped. “I think that’s right. Do it again.”

He was careful to watch her face, even though it was hard to take his eyes off her cheeks every time he hit them. They jiggled so beautifully. He took his time between each smack, letting her get used to the pain, as well as giving her time to feel it. To make sure it didn’t become too overwhelming too fast, he alternated between the cheeks. The third on the right. The fourth on the left. Numbers five and six on the right, one quickly followed by the other; seven, eight and nine on the left. After that, he stopped keeping count. Numbers didn’t matter. All that mattered was Belle writhing and gasping and moaning, her whole body rocking against his, providing friction that was far from enough to make him come, but that kept him hard and so close to the edge. Between slaps, he wanted nothing more than to squeeze the reddening skin, keeping her aware of the pain without actually making it worse. But the memory of her engagement ring refrained him from doing that.

When he thought her skin was warm enough and her breathing was already shallow, he touched the leather paddle against the back of her knees. Belle shuddered, but he could still see her smiling, as sure as ever.

He asked, “Do you still want this?” and made the paddle crawl up her thighs. Belle arched her back and stretched her arms in front of her, flexing her fingers like claws. The way she breathed, trembling and fast, sounded very pleased. When the paddle reached her buttocks, she said, “God, _yes_!” and he didn’t waste time making sure before landing a loud smack.

This time, she squealed. Then, she laughed. Not a nervous laugh, but a joyous one, completely at ease with the situation.

She said, “That _does_ sting more.”

“Are you asking me to stop?”

“Never,” she said. “It’s getting interesting.”

“ _Getting_ interesting?” he repeated indignantly, punctuating his offense with another smack. She cried out and buried her face in her arms again to muffle the giggling. “Am I being too soft on you, lassie?”

“I’m sure you’re doing your best,” she teased, earning another hard hit of the leather, just as she wanted.

The paddle was long enough to reach both of her cheeks at the same time, so he watched her carefully, aiming always for the same place, but minding his strength.

After the first few, she said, “I like this.”

“What do you like about it?” he asked, rubbing the leather against her ass, as the last smack settled in.

She practically mewed, “Keep going.”

But he kept the paddle down, watching as the color on her cheeks deepened. “Earn it, dearie. Tell me what you like about it.”

Belle hummed in frustration, but answered, “I like the way it burns.”

Her reward made her rock and push her hips back until she was up on her knees, stealing the fleeting sensation of her weight on top of his cock. He pushed her back down, saying, “Don’t move. I like the way you are.”

She giggled again. “I can feel it.”

Rhys felt the urge of delivering another one, just for the cheekiness, but held back. Instead, he said, “What else?”

“I don’t know,” she whined, purposefully squirming in a way that would make him feel her.

“You better think fast,” he said, catching his own breath and pressing a hand down her lower back to try to keep her still. “Or else I will put this away.”

She groaned and raised her feet from the mattress, as if trying to kick him with her heels, but giving up half-way through.

“I love that…” she started, then allowed herself a second to think before concluding, “That I’m at your mercy.”

Rhys frowned, “Really?”

Her reply was a shrug. “It’s a good feeling.”

“What?” he teased, running his hand up and down her spine again. “That I can do anything I want with you, my dear?”

She squirmed again. “Now you’re being mean.”

He leaned closer, dropping his voice to what he hoped was a seductive whisper. “Or that I can keep you here for as long as I want, and that I can make your ass as red as I want. Although, I think you’d like that.”

She moaned. “You’re making me…” she started, but bit down on her bottom lip and forced herself to be silent before anything more compromising escaped her mouth.

Rhys allowed the words to sink in, and any other cliche he was planning on reciting to her pleasure disappeared in the desperate need for that word. She had to finish. He _needed_ that word in his ears. It would be as good as to have it on the tip of his fingers, or to taste it in his mouth.

This time, she did kick him. It was a soft, pathetic effort, but it caught his attention.

“Hey,” she complained. “I think I’ve earned it.”

“You did,” he agreed. “Beautifully.”

She muffled her cries against the mattress as he slapped her twice.

He said, “I want to hear you.”

Belle all but laughed. “What are you going to do about it?”

Without even thinking, he twirled her long hair in his hand twice and pulled her head back. The next time he hit her, she yelped to the empty room.

“Is this what you meant by mercy?” he asked.

She trembled and nodded, as the grip on her hair tightened. It was his weak hand, but he compensated with another smack and she didn’t seem disappointed. He pulled her closer as he leaned in to whisper, “Do you like being at the mercy of a beastly man?”

He smacked harder than before – once, twice, three times – as if to prove his point, listening as her voice escalated from a squeal to a breathless scream. In the aftermath of the pain, a smile spread on her face, lazy and ultimately sated. She opened her eyes and looked at him the best she could. Despite a thick veil of tears, she looked to Rhys more beautiful than he had ever seen her before. He wondered if that was what true happiness looked on her face.

In a sweet voice, stripped of all pretense, Belle said, “You’re better than any beast.”

The unexpected compliment warmed his chest and Rhys chuckled, leaning even closer to kiss the top of her head, just above where his fingers were tangled in her hair.

Belle hummed appreciatively. “Don’t stop.”

“Little longer?”

“Yes, I want to remember this when-”

She cut herself short, but there was no need. Rhys knew what she meant.

 _When it’s over_.

Rhys slowly disentangled his fingers from her hair, until she could rest her forehead on the mattress again. If he had to let her go, better start now.

The next three strokes he delivered slowly, knowing they were nearing the end and soon after she’d be gone. He wanted to remember the feeling of the paddle in his hand, and the sound it made when it landed on her skin, and her voice unashamedly reacting to his ministration.

When the echo of her voice died, he placed the paddle under her chin and made her turn to face him as much as she could. He wanted a clear view of her face. She was no longer smiling, but her face was still serene, despite the few tears rolling down her cheek.

“Enough?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Look at me, my dear.”

Her eyes fluttered open. The happiness had given way to a hint of sadness and they still refused to meet his eyes.

“I think it’s time to stop,” he said.

She took in some breath and said, “Can I-Can I ask for one more?”

He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “Just one?”

“Yes, but-but make it as hard as you can. I’m curious.”

“You’re very red already-” he started.

“Just-just one more,” she pleaded, wet eyes finally meeting his. “I hate uneven numbers.”

“You’re keeping count?” Rhys asked, a little impressed.

She smirked. “It’s not like you’re hitting me _that_ hard.”

She was being deliberately cheeky, trying to bruise his ego to get him to do as she wanted. The worst part was that it was working.

“ _One_ more,” he agreed.

“As hard as you can?”

He compromised, “I’ll make it _very_ hard.”

Belle whined, disappointed, but said, “Okay.”

The paddle slipped from under her chin and she faced the wall again, this time keeping her elbows close to her body and her shoulders tensed. Rhys raised his hand and looked down at her ass one last time, burned its shape and the feeling of her skin into his memory and hoped he’d never forget it once it was all over.

He made good on his promise and increased the strength on the final smack, just enough so she could tell the difference. Worried as he might be, he still loved the sound of it, louder than before, more solid. If he ever had the chance to do this again, he’d surely experiment more – with other paddles, with her resistance, with anything that she’d allow him to.

This time, Belle responded with a sob, a sorrowful sound from the deepest part of her throat. And yet, she seemed finally sated as her whole body relaxed and her breathing went back to a steady pace, quietly enjoying the burn spreading on her skin.

“Good?” he asked.

“ _Yes_ ,” she answered, immediately, between breaths. “ _Really_ good.”

Nodding, he settled the paddle on the cot and admired his handiwork. Her buttocks were very red and he wondered if they’d bruise. A more wicked thought wondered if she would feel him for the rest of the week, every time she sat down, and if the mere thought of it would be enough to make her wet. She would probably sooth the need by using his rose, and thinking back on these few minutes in the back of his shop – thinking of _him_.

Would her fiance even notice the bruising?

Belle started moving, slowly, as if her whole body was sore. Which, come to think of it, wasn’t so far fetched. How long had she been lying on his lap? He could steal a glance at his watch, but he didn’t want to take his eyes off of her.

Belle sat by his side, letting out a timid, “ _Ow_ …” as she straightened her back and brushed down her dress.

Rhys looked over his shoulder at the pillow resting against the wall, and wondered if he should offer it to her – or casually pull it to cover himself, though that would probably call even more attention than the hardness tenting in his pants at the moment.

But Belle didn’t look at him. She simply brushed the tears off her eyes and asked, “May I use your washroom?”

He cleared his throat, but decided against speaking, pointing at a side door.

Belle scurried to her feet and, placing a hand on the wall for balance, rushed out of the room, locking the door behind her.

Rhys fumbled for the cane he had dropped on the floor and got up as fast as he could as well, feeling the weight of his erection as he walked to his work station. The hand that wasn’t grasping the cane for dear life instinctively grabbed his cock through his pants. He had to cover himself. Or take care of himself. Anything that wouldn’t result in Belle coming out of the washroom to see him like that.

On the other side of the door, water started running and he wondered just how long he’d have. Or if Belle would get out of there at all. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was about to have a nervous breakdown over cheating on her fiance and Rhys would have to call the fire department to get her out of his bathroom.

But within three minutes, she came back and Rhys had to solve his situation by sitting behind his desk and pretending everything was as normal as ever.

Belle had taken the time to fix her dress and sprinkle some water on her heated face. Her hair would need more work on, but overall she looked ready to leave.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Not in a bad way.”

“Good. That’s good.” He paused. “Do you need anything?”

“I need to leave,” she said, unable to mask the sorrow in her voice.

“If you want to wait a moment, that’s fine,” he said, thinking back on all those articles that Jefferson had fed him on aftercare and wondering what might work best for her. Oil for her skin would be ideal. Or water. Hell, he was ready to limp to the nearest coffee shop to get her some hot cocoa, bad ankle (and hard cock) be damned.

But she said, “I just _really_ need to go. I’m sorry.” And, without saying another word, she turned around and vanished on the other side of the curtain. Rhys paid close attention to the clacking of her heels, the rattle of her impossibly large purse, and finally the bell that indicated she was gone.


	7. Satisfaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle ponders on her meeting with Mr. Gold, while putting Gaston to good use.

There were only about half a dozen things that Gaston was willing to do in bed, but at least he did them well. It was, perhaps, a minor upside to their relationship, or truly what kept her trapped. Belle wouldn’t put up with half the shit that her fiance did if he wasn’t so good at providing a reasonably pleasurable distraction.

And right now, sitting on her living room couch, tapping her foot, trying to keep her breathing steady, occasionally contracting her muscles to make sure that delicious burn hadn’t faded, kneading her hands to make sure they stayed primly on her lap and far away from the part of her that was craving for attention-

Right now, she’d take anything to ease that hunger that was pushing her towards more bad decisions.

After meeting with Mr. Gold-

Good lord, she didn’t even know his first name. She should have asked. She had never slept with a man without knowing his name, and this had been much more intimate than a one night stand. Although, if she had to be completely honest, the detachment she knew him for had been one of the reasons she had taken that final step in the first place. A man like Mr. Gold, who flirts with you from a comfortable distance and refuses to get on a first name basis because you work with him, wouldn’t try to make things more complicated than they already were. He was too rational for that.

She, on the other hand, was not.

After meeting with Mr. Gold, Belle canceled her appointments for the rest of the day and took the bus back to her apartment. She wasn’t thinking straight. Hadn’t been since her last visit to the pawnshop, when Mr. Gold had presented her with that beautiful glass rose and she, in return, had made an already fragile relationship even more awkward. To make everything worse, Gaston kidnapped her for the weekend, taking her to a friend’s lake house, where he could watch some game with the guys, and she could be stuck with the other girlfriends, women who were _dying_ to talk about the engagement, despite the fact that it was old news. Had been for eleven months.

The fighting started on Saturday morning, when he asked why she was looking so gloomy, and she had dared to give him a semi-truthful answer and said that she’d appreciate a heads up next time he wanted to get away for the weekend. Saying, “because I’d rather be spending time with my new dildo” wouldn’t be politically correct.

Gaston had argued that she was always wanting him to be more spontaneous. Why did she always have to criticize everything he did? And things escalated from there.

By Monday morning, they drove back in silence and hadn’t spoken to each other since he dropped her off at her house. Now, they were pretending to wait to see who’d cave in and call the other first. As if they both didn’t know it would be Belle all along.

She was still furious. A fight like that would take her at least two weeks of reasonable debates with herself until she finally agreed that saying sorry was the easiest way out. But as soon as she got home from Mr. Gold’s shop, she texted him without even questioning if that was a good idea. It wasn’t an honest apology, but Gaston could never tell the difference. As long as she stroked his ego, he’d forgive her and come running. Their fights always ended in make up sex, mostly because Belle wanted the reminder that their relationship wasn’t _all_ bad. And right now, she needed that reminder more than ever because she was barely able to contain herself.

Belle had stumbled to that tiny washroom with weak ankles, hoping she wouldn’t fall on the floor and have Mr. Gold come to her aid. The last thing she wanted was to be touched, even though it was exactly what she needed. A break, was all she wanted, just to lock herself in the silence of the bathroom until the dangerous thoughts inside her head were gone.

Her reflection in the mirror had red rimmed eyes and a face stained by tears. Her hair was creased where Mr. Gold had been holding her – with surprising strength, she might add. More to be sure than to sooth the need, she shoved her hand inside her panties and tested her creases with the tip of her finger. She was wet. More than Gaston had ever made her, though that shouldn’t be a surprise. He was an efficient lover, but that was about it.

Mr. Gold, on the other hand, seemed quite promising. It wasn’t hard to evoke a very vivid image of him, right behind her, one hand grabbing her sore ass, the other holding her jaw in place so that she’d have to look in the mirror, whispering, “Look at yourself, my dear, right into your eyes.” His voice was tentative, far from having the confidence she imagined from men in her erotic books, but at least he was making an effort. And he had a delicious accent.

“See how much you need this? Tell me how badly you want it. If you do it nicely, I might let you come.”

Pulling her hand out before giving in completely was difficult, but she did it. She washed her fingers thoroughly before any of the many tempting possibilities took a hold of her mind – her favorites being asking him to lick them clean, or doing it herself right before offering him a kiss, and seeing if he could taste the difference. Life was not like in her books. Assuming he’d go along with the spanking had been enough of a risk.

Yes, Belle knew he wanted her. Mr. Gold wasn’t exactly subtle about it, though he tried to be. Flirting with him and watching him flirt back without being overtly inappropriate was fun. It fueled her imagination with scenarios such as the one they had enacted. Just as much as testing his products, the flirting gave her a wicked kind of pleasure. But now she had taken things too far. It didn’t matter that he wanted, she shouldn’t have offered it. She was engaged, unhappily so, and acting out fantasies with other men was not the way to fix it, not the way a break up would.

If only she had that option.

Belle left the pawnshop as fast as she could, before she had another brilliant idea and made everything worse. Mr. Gold didn’t deserve to be caught in her mess. He wasn’t a way to get back at Gaston for their engagement, or to fulfill fantasies that her fiance judged her for. He was a good man, who always treated her with respect, even when – or maybe especially when – she disagreed with him, or pointed out the many ways he was wrong.

Every bump on the road home shot pain up her spine, and every step made her muscles ache. Even though she was now far away, it felt like she hadn’t really left at all, and she was still over his knees, feeling his erection through the fabric of his pants, as his hand worked hard to bruise her, just the way she wanted. It was so easy to twist those few minutes into hundreds of ways, one more delightful than the other. To come home and use her glass rose would be the best way to end the day.

Yet, she called Gaston, as an act of constriction, as well as a reminder of the harsh reality.

Gaston was all over her the moment she closed her door, which was a good thing. If he made her grovel for his forgiveness, she might actually slap him or start another fight. Gaston loved a power play, just not the kind that would make his fiance happy.

He took her into the bedroom and loved her in the usual, uneventful way. Skilled fingers stroking her clit, then a very adequate mouth kissing down her stomach and into her core. Orgasm number one. Slow penetration, with a steady rhythm Belle had learned to use to her benefit after three years. She aimed her hips at the right spot, trying to rub her ass against the covers so that she’d get a glimpse of that unfamiliar burn. Orgasm number two was adequate, and yet, so far from what she truly wanted.

“I love you, babe,” Gaston puffed into her ear, closer to the edge.

“I love you, babe,” she answered, with the same affection of a pet parrot.

She guided his hands down to her buttocks and made him squeeze it, grinding his hips so forcefully one couldn’t say she had just climaxed, twice. She just needed something else. Something a little more violent. She needed to come while he grabbed the bruises on her ass, making her moan with the pain as much as the pleasure and reminding her who was in charge, and the many consequences there would be for her bad behavior.

Gaston finished just as pleasure started to mount inside of her again, putting her back to where she started: unsatisfied, wet, and desperate.


	8. Just Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys surprises Belle with a business proposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled A LOT with this chapter. It’s been written and rewritten a dozen times. But I think this is the version I can live with.
> 
> MaddieBonanaFana did the beta, as always.

Rhys left the door unlocked and positioned himself behind the farthest glass counter, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the possibility of Belle coming into his shop. She was late. Just a couple of minutes, but since she was normally a punctual person, it made him nervous.

To invite her over had been a long shot anyway. She had replied to his message and promised to meet him at lunchtime, but it wouldn’t surprise him if she had changed her mind and he would never see her again.

Then again, she had been the one to reach out first by sending him a rather long (yet clinically detached) report. Maybe she was just being her typical thorough self, or maybe rationalizing the whole thing as a trialmade her feel less guilty, it didn’t matter. He had spent the past three days checking his phone and email constantly, waiting for her to say  _anything_ , at the same time debating with himself if maybe he shouldn’t be the one to send the first message. When her report finally came, it filled him with relief and gave him the courage to invite her over for a conversation that was long overdue.

But as soon as the door opened and Belle walked in, fifteen minutes late, Rhys felt his throat go dry, all carefully rehearsed words escaping him quickly. For once, she did not have a cocky smile on her face and a prance on her step. If anything, she looked repented.

 _Regret,_  he thought to himself.  _That’s what it is. She regrets everything_.

It took Belle a moment to walk away from the door and towards the counter, eyes trying not to focus on his own for more than a second or two. But finally, she stood before him and looked up.

“Did you… did you read the report I sent you?”

“I did,” he answered, automatically. “Thank you. It will be very helpful.”

“I didn’t send it to Jefferson, in case you’re wondering. I’d rather we didn’t tell him, if you don’t object.”

“I’d never hear the end of it if we did.”

“I put you in a difficult position.”

Rhys shrugged. “Not particularly. But it would amuse him. A lot.”

Belle nodded and looked at the counter, giving him a second with his thoughts.

Rhys saw himself as a rational man who liked his life to be uncomplicated and predictable. He wasn’t adventurous, and he surely wasn’t prone to making decisions based on emotion, or sexualdrive. He could only think of two exceptions: what he had done to Belle not five days before, and what he was about to offer her now.

Not that it had been an easy decision to come to. He had come up with long lists in his head on why this was a bad idea, and he could organize the reasons in alphabetical order – during a particularly bad insomniac episode, he had actually done so. But no matter how many times he went over it, or how much his rational side kept coming up with bad scenarios, Rhys would always come back to the thought of having Belle French over his knees, willing and vulnerable, entrusting him with such an intimate fantasy. That had felt good, and it was enough to silence any trace of rationality.

He had never known sex to be so intense. Not with Milah, not with any of the women he tried to have a relationship with since the end of his marriage. And he had barely touched her beyond the smack of the paddle, or the careful way he had wrapped her hair around his hand. To watch her body, to learn how to make her react, to see her skin turn from white to a beautiful shade of red, it was better than anything any other lover had given him. Belle had liked it, too. Rhys could see it on her face.

Now, she was looking at him, her face still, undecipherable but for a little hint of guilt in her eyes. “Did you ask me here to tell me I cannot be your tester anymore?”

“No.”

“It’s alright if you did. Jefferson has other suppliers I could try, and it’s not like he’s paying me. It would be a pity, but I would understand.”

“I still want you. To be my tester, that is,” he added, hurriedly.

Any other day, that would have elicited a flirt from her. Today, she didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

“Did you ask me here to apologize?”

Now Rhys was the one raising an eyebrow. “Should I apologize?”

“No. But you seem like the kind of man who would apologize, regardless.”

“What, for defiling you in the back of my shop?”

She gave him the faintest smile. “We never got to the defiling part, though.”

“Pity.”

She looked down again and, in the blink of an eye, the smile was gone and the regret returned. “You really shouldn’t apologize.”

“I know.”

“I am a grown woman. I knew what I was doing.”

“I know.”

“If anything,” she continued, as if he hadn’t said a word. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m engaged. I should have known better than to give in to curiosity.”

Rhys nodded. “if you don’t mind me asking… why did you?”

Belle seemed to consider, but ended up shaking her head, lost. “I have… no… idea.” She quirked her eyebrows, for a moment looking to Rhys like the woman who had flirted with him not two weeks ago. “I suppose your rose put me in a really good mood.”

“You’re welcome.”

Belle tried not to smile, but failed.

“And I suppose,” she proceeded, “that I wanted to know what it felt like. And I knew that would be my only opportunity. I wouldn’t have courage to ask for it again. Still. I should have thought of the repercussions. And I shouldn’t have involved-”

“Doesn’t have to be the only opportunity.”

Belle stared at him.

Rhys opened his mouth to elaborate with a much rehearsed speech, but stopped himself before he said something he might regret and waited for her reaction. There was no need for explanation. Judging by the look on her face, she’d got it.

“I am still engaged,” she finally answered.

“I am aware.”

“I have a duty to my fiance.”

“Yes-”

“I love him,” she added quickly, as if he might call her out on it if she didn’t state her feelings convincingly.

“I am not questioning that,” he said. “But just tell me this, do you regret what we did?”

“No,” she answered, without hesitation.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes.” She paused. “Very much so. Did you?”

Rhys took a moment before answering. Enjoy it didn’t quite cover it. His pants had been down the moment the little bell stopped ringing and any thoughts and concerns were stored for later use. He threw himself on the cot, not even thinking of locking the front door, and tried to inhale whatever was left of her scent on the covers. His mind rushed to a thousand places at once.

Dragging a finger over her wet panties-

The sound of her voice-

The heat of her skin turning read-

How loudly would she scream if he squeezed her bruises-

Belle kneeling in the corner, red and repented and aching-

Belle kneeling between his own legs-

Having her on his lap-

Or his desk-

Or his glass counters-

He came into his own hand within seconds, shoving his face into the cot. The muffled sound was loud enough to make him ashamed as soon as his head stopped spinning and he regained his good sense. The traces of a very good orgasm were quickly leaving his body. The relaxation that followed didn’t last, and soon he went back to feeling unsatisfied. When he opened his eyes, there was no Belle. She was probably on her way home, bruised and horny, to see her fiance.

As for himself, Belle had turned him into a barely functional human being who couldn’t go thirty minutes without the memory of her.

“I did,” Rhys said, finally. “And I’d dare say there is much more you’d like to try out.”

Belle shook her head. “What I want doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

She almost smiled at him.

Rhys said, “I don’t expect you to leave your fiance. This isn’t what this is about. Neither do I expect this thing to turn sexual. I know it won’t.”

“You’d like it to.”

He allowed himself to think about it, before admitting, “Yes. But I think we’ve both proved to have some self-control.”

“Not enough,” Belle said. But she still asked, “What are you offering?”

“You are my tester. You are my best tester. But there are things you cannot do because you lack a partner.”

“And you’re offering to be that partner.”

Not so much offering, Rhys thought. More like begging on his knees.

“If you’ll have me,” he said. “For anything you are comfortable with.”

Belle tapped her fingers on the counter, thinking. Rhys wondered if, like himself, she was debating pros and cons with her most rational side, hoping its arguments wouldn’t be too hard to ignore.

Belle said, “I won’t fool myself into saying this isn’t cheating because there isn’t penetration involved. This is still sexual.”

“You flirted with me before.”

She seemed taken aback by his bluntness, but nodded, “Yes.”

“You had no intention of sleeping with me then.”

“Not a real intention, no.”

She thought about it, screamed a happy voice in his head.

Belle silenced it by saying, “But there is a big difference between flirting and actually touching each other.”

“We don’t have to touch. We don’t have to do anything that will make you feel guilty or uncomfortable. You draw a line and we will not cross it.”

Belle seemed to consider it. She said. “I could never do this to my husband.”

Rhys heard what she said and was about to get disappointed and end the conversation with an apology, when he read between the lines.

“You won’t have to,” he said. “The moment you get married, this ends.” For good measure, he added, “Think of it as my wedding present: everything you ever wanted to do.”

In the silence that followed, Rhys could barely breathe as his heart drummed against his chest. She chewed on her lip, tapped the counter some more, and shifted from one leg to the other. She seemed to find the idea seductive, but there was something holding her back, and Rhys would dare guess it wasn’t her fiance.

“Do I have your word that this will stay between us?”

“Yes,” Rhys nodded, his voice firm and honest. “Not even Jefferson has to know.”

Belle nodded.

“If there are feelings involved, you’ll have to pull back.”

Rhys stared at her, surprised that that was even a concern.

He said, “That won’t be a problem.”

She stared back at him, as if ready to have a lengthy debate on why feelings could very easily become a problem. Instead, she stated, “I like your rope.”

Rhys frowned. “Alright…”

“Have you ever tied anyone?”

The question took him by surprise and Rhys had to swallow a lump in his throat before being able to answer, “Jefferson makes me practice.”

“Why?”

“He says it’s research. But I think he just likes to make me uncomfortable.”

Belle didn’t laugh. “There’s only so much I can do by myself.”

Rhys narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you saying yes?”

Belle didn’t answer.

“You need to be clear, if we’re going to do this.”

Her jaw clenched, a final moment of resistance, before she nodded. “Yes.”

“And what is it that you want me to do?”

When it came, her request sounded like a confession, “I want you to tie me up.”


	9. Show Me The Ropes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys and Belle start their new arrangement with the help of a chair. And yes, I will do rope puns for as long as I can get away with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thank you note: to everybody who nominated and voted for A Dozen Roses for Best Courtship and Best Smut: Romance at the last T.E.A., that was sweet and flattering and it made me insanely happy just to have my story up there, especially considering how terrible I am at updating my stories. I promise to get better at it.
> 
> Beta: @maddiebonanafana

The chair was one of the items Rhys had inherited along with the store, and by now he had resigned himself to the fact that no one was ever going to buy it. It was a good enough replica, but it was so pretentious it had gone out of style. Nowadays, it only served two purposes: collecting dust in the corner, and fueling his imagination when he got bored. The fact that Miss French was currently waiting for him in the back, and that he could finally put that ugly chair to good use, was hard to believe.

Rhys moved fast before she came to her senses and changed her mind. The chair was heavy and hard to move around (another reason why no one wanted it), but he did his best to pull it across the shop with his free hand. It scratched the floor, but right now he didn’t give a damn. By the time he got to the back of the shop, he was panting, and the sound had attracted Belle’s curiosity.

He refused her help when she offered and placed the chair in the middle of the backroom, trying not to look too exhausted from the effort. Belle looked at it with a neutral expression, and then said, “You know, for a moment there I thought you were bringing some sort of torture device.”

“Now I’m afraid I’ve disappointed you,” he answered, still fighting to get his breathing under control.

Belle smiled at his tease.

“Nothing to fear,” he continued. “It’s actually just an ugly, old chair.”

He placed his free hand on the backrest, as if to show it was truly harmless.

“It’s not ugly. It’s beautiful.”

“I question your taste. Although, it is Victorian. A replica, anyway. Isn’t worth much.”

He was ranting. He should stop ranting. He wasn’t trying to sell her the damn chair.

Belle said, “I still think it’s beautiful.” And knelt down to examine it. The chair had been labored in dark wood, with deep carvings on its legs and arms. The upholstery was done in black fabric, with large flowers embroidered in a pale shade of purple. Personally, Rhys thought the flourishes were a bit too much and the overall result was too imposing for any livingroom. The one thing he did like about that chair, though, was that it wasn’t too tall, but the armrests were high, perfect for what he had in mind.

Belle touched the fabric, tracing one of the flowers with her index finger.

“What was your idea?” she asked.

“Perhaps I should be the one to ask you that,” he answered. “It was your request, after all.”

“It was. But it clearly has awakened something, and now you’ve made me curious.”

Rhys bit the inside of his cheek not to look too giddy as he explained, “My idea, if you don’t object, was to tie you to this chair.”

“Well, I don’t object,” she stated, carefully. “But just how flexible do you need me to be? Because I’ve seen some pictures of bondage using furniture, and I’m not sure I can… bend all those ways.”

Despite his nerves, Rhys found himself laughing. “Some people can get a bit acrobatic. But I had something fairly simple in mind.”

She rose to her feet. “Alright. I can do _fairly simple_. I’ve done _fairly simple_ on my own.”

“What have you done?”

“Basic harnesses. Full body. Or around the waist. Always with a pair of scissors at hand, before you try to lecture me on the dangers of self-bondage.” She winked. “Safety first.”

“I’m not one to lecture,” he said, cursing his own heart for sipping a beat at that simple tease. “The amount of times I had to call a blacksmith to help me get out of handcuffs I was testing by myself-”

Now Belle was the one laughing. “A cautionary tale.”

“Yeah, the perks of my line of work.”

“I never did anything too elaborate,” she said. “I’m always afraid I’m going to get stuck.”

“I can do elaborate. But I need you to be clear about your limits. Just how much can I touch, or… see?”

A wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. She had her arms crossed, but he could see her fingers fidgeting as she thought about it.

“I want to keep my clothes on,” she said. “If it’s all the same.”

“It’s all the same.”

“But you can open my shirt, or lift my skirt. If you want to. Or you have to. You can touch me wherever you need to tie me. Is that acceptable to you?”

She had on a simple short-sleeved shirt and a blue round skirt. Easy to handle, if he so wished. No stockings today. Before he could think too much of what lied underneath her clothes, he answered, “It is. Anything else?”

“Yes.”

When she didn’t continue, he asked, “Yes?”

Belle still allowed herself a moment of hesitation before letting the words out, “I don’t want to be stimulated.”

Rhys wanted her to be more specific. Not because he didn’t understand what she meant, it was clear by the slight tremble in her voice, but because he wanted to hear her say the words. There could be so much potential in those words, so many implied fantasies she’d had in the past. But she was nervous – hell, they were both a nervous wreck. There was no need to be a jerk and add to the pressure.

“Right,” he said.

“I mean, other than the rope.”

“Yes, I understand.”

She gnawed on her bottom lip while looking at the chair. Before he could ask her to sit, she asked, “Will we need a safe word, or just ‘stop’ will do?”

“Stop will do. But for good measure, we should have one.”

_As well as for future meetings_ , he thought but found it arrogant to repeat out loud. For all he knew, this meeting could be their last.

“Like… red, yellow, green?”

He smirked. “And me thinking you’d like to get creative.”

“I think certain things work best when they’re straightforward.”

“Indeed.”

Belle looked at him. And then, to his surprise, she started laughing.

“What?” he asked.

“You look more nervous than I do.”

“You underestimate just how nervous you look right now, Miss French.”

“But, in my defense, Jefferson never made me practice.”

“That was different,” he said, defensive. “He was actually standing by and giving me pointers.”

“I can see how that would ruin the mood.”

“The mood wasn’t ruined until I whipped the rope into the poor woman’s eye.”

She laughed harder.

“There’s no coming back from that.”

“How come you never told me of these adventures before?” she asked. “Locking yourself testing handcuffs. Poking out someone else’s eye with rope.”

“She was perfectly fine!”

“So there’s a chance I might survive this?”

“A very good chance.”

He looked around for his basket and fished two batches of rope from it. The first was Jefferson’s favorite shade of purple, and the second was plain white.

“Won’t that ruin your merchandise?” she asked.

“I think Jefferson can do without purple rope for a week.”

“How about the chair?”

_If this goes well, I’m never selling this chair._

“Let me worry about that. Now can you please sit?”

She turned around, but he stopped her.

“But can you face the other way, and fit your legs under the armrests?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “You know, if I get stuck you’ll have to break your beautiful chair.”

“You won’t get stuck. Trust me.”

Rhys offered her his hand. Belle eyed it, not suspicious, but still allowing herself a final moment of hesitation before doing as she was told. Her fingers were shaking, but her grip was firm, determined. The worries on her face vanished as she looked at the chair once again, turning the whole thing into a logical problem. What was the easiest way to sit down without getting stuck, or breaking an ankle? She decided to place her right leg first, which fit without problem. Then, with surprising equilibrium, she moved closer and fit in the other leg.

“I feel clumsy,” she whispered.

“You look beautiful.”

Rhys thought he saw her glance up, but then she wobbled and her eyes were once again on a fixed point, trying to maintain her balance. As she settled on the chair, she sighed with relief. “Those ballet classes paid off.”

“I always thought you had the legs of a ballerina.”

“Oh?” she said, inquisitive, folding her arms on the backrest. “Mr. Gold, have you been ogling my legs?”

Maybe he should feel guilty, or at least embarrassed. But the tease in her eyes was familiar to him and it put him at ease. They might as well have been at the counter, flirting with each other as they discussed one of his new creations.

He walked around the chair. “I don’t ogle, Miss French. I’m a gentleman. I’ve simply _noticed_.”

“Hm-hm,” she mumbled back, sounding deliberately skeptical. But her lightness vanished when he touched her hair without warning.

Belle startled, and he immediately pulled back.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the air growing thick with worry again. “I’m sorry, I should have asked-”

She said, “No, please, it’s fine. I suppose you’re right. I am nervous.”

“So… you don’t mind?”

“No. Not at all.”

Rhys took a step closer and hooked his cane on the armrest to have both hands free. He pulled her hair back, as if to make a ponytail, but instead of tying it in place, he just ran his fingers through it. As soft as he remembered, though the last time he’d touched her hair, it had been with a fierce grip, pulling her head back just to get a better glimpse at her face and to be closer to her. This time, his touch was gentle, lingering. So much that he actually feared she might be disappointed. After all, she didn’t come to him for something so mild. But then she cocked her head back, leaning into his touch, and all his fears were silenced.

“This feels good,” she said.

“Do you mind if I tie it up?”

“With the rope?”

“With hairpins. Just to get it out of the way.”

She nodded.

“You do have everything in this shop,” she said, as he fetched the pins and a stool and settled behind her.

“It’s hairpins, Miss French. Not an exotic item.”

“You’d be surprised at how many men haven’t even heard of it.”

“Granted.”

“Can you do that with the rope?”

“Hm?” he mumbled back, three pins trapped between his pressed lips.

“Can you tie my hair with rope? Not _now_ , but do you know how to do that?”

He hummed, contemplating the thought as he handled her hair. He formed a bun and used the pins to keep it in place.

“I do,” he answered, checking his work. “I mean, I’ve done it before. Not something I do regularly. But I could practice. Although, I think your hair might be too fair for it.” He tucked a rebellious lock behind her ear. “How do you feel?”

She shrugged.

“I’d rather you used words. Just so everything is clear.”

“I’m well. So far.”

“Good. Can you place your arms at your back?”

Belle did as he asked, her shoulders slumped, her arms hanging limp. “Like this?”

“Mind your posture,” he said, gentle, lifting her chin with the touch of a single finger, as she straightened her back on her own and pushed out her chest. “No reason to be sloppy, my dear.”

“Yes…” she answered, the word sounding vague, unfinished. His name was missing, or perhaps a formal title. To her, he had always been Mr. Gold, but this was a special situation.

Rhys toyed with the idea of whispering “Yes, _sir_ ,” inside her ear, a little hint of scorn just to keep her on her toes, but it didn’t feel right. He hadn’t earn it, at least not yet.

“You can call me Rhys, if you’d like,” he suggested.

“Rhys Gold,” she said, trying out his full name. She sounded pleased with it, and that made him smile.

With a tentative touch, he smoothed her shoulders and down her arms, until the fabric of her sleeves gave way to her skin. He expected her to recoil again, but she didn’t. It wasn’t until he took a hold of her wrists that he could hear the tiniest gasp, and even that sounded more like pleasure than fear. He pulled at her, stretching her muscles and trying her flexibility.

“You sold yourself short,” he said, crossing one of her arms over the other and getting no complain from her. “You are quite malleable.”

Belle hummed and rolled her head from one shoulder to the other, stretching her neck – a long, slim neck. It would look so beautiful with a collar around it.

“Just don’t get creative and try to hang me from the ceiling,” she said, a jest in her tone. “I don’t think my body can take that just yet.”

“Dully noted.”

Rhys placed her arms on her back, hands holding on to forearms, forming a square with her shoulders. Telling her to hold the position, he disentangled the purple rope and put its ends together.

“Is this supposed to hurt?” she asked, more curious than anxious, as he passed the rope around her forearms twice.

“It’s not supposed to, though people react to it differently.”

He made the first knot with a slow and careful motion, not to pinch her skin or cause her any discomfort. When it was done, he held on to the rope and pulled it up like the strings of a puppet, just to try the pressure on her arms.

“Is it too tight?” he asked.

Her fingers twitched, experimenting with the little freedom they still had, and she answered, “No. I’m alright.”

Rhys held the rope up, thinking over his next move. He didn’t lack ideas, not after a year of spinning thread with nothing but the thought of Belle to keep him company. But it was hard to choose an appropriate one. So far, he had only touched her with the tips of his fingers, and even though she had given him permission to go as far as needed to tie her up, there still were many ways to inadvertently cross a line.

Tentatively, he nudged closer to her. Belle turned her head at the sudden movement, and now he could see the profile of her beautiful face, one blue eye attentive, trying to catch a glimpse of him, her lips parted slightly as she tried to keep her breathing under control. She didn’t want to look nervous. Or maybe aroused? He wanted to say something comforting – or something that would make her squirm and moan his name with want. But the thought of his own warm breath on her skin made him fear he might lose himself in the fantasy and do something stupid. He had to keep his head together.

Rhys passed the rope over her left shoulder and down between her breasts, then around her back and up her cleavage again. At first, he made an effort not to touch her more than strictly necessary, but that proved to be pointless. Trying to avoid it only made it all the more intense every time he accidentally brushed over her breasts or neck. Rhys had learned that the rope could be undeniably erotic, but it had always seemed much more clinical when he was doing it to one of Jefferson’s friends. _This_ was intimate. It was very near to being a dream come true. He would’ve spent the rest of the night working the rope around Belle’s body and that alone would have satisfied him. But as it were, he made the final knot on her back within minutes.

“How do you feel?” he said, noticing that his voice had dropped to a rasp. He should take a step back. He shouldn’t be whispering in her ear.

However, Belle leaned back and rested her bun on his shoulder, giving him a perfect view of the rope on her chest. It outlined her breasts so beautifully that he couldn’t look away.

“This is good,” she answered, much in the same tone, her breathing even as she concentrated on the feel of the rope.

“Tell me what you like about it.”

She smiled, but didn’t open her eyes. “I think you like the sound of my voice.”

“You are, after all, my tester.”

“You need my feedback?”

“Always.”

She hummed in a state of content. When he started opening the buttons on her shirt, she didn’t protest.

“Feels snugly and safe. It’s not like the other day. That time, I was wired, I felt restless. This relaxes me.”

“Don’t tell me I’m boring you.”

“Never. I just feel… peaceful. As if you tamed me.”

“I like the thought of that.”

He pulled the pins out of her hair and let it fall down her shoulders and her cleavage, her shirt opened just enough for him to see the lacy hem of her bra and the parting of her breasts.

“Is that what you wanted to do to me?” she asked, and Rhys thought that she did sound relaxed. And so very happy. “You wanted to tame me?”

“What, to do as I wished with you?” he teased.

Belle shivered, but didn’t answer. He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. Smooth, pale skin. He wished he could give her a kiss, but they hadn’t talked about that before and he didn’t want to push his luck.

“Why the chair?”

“Hm?”

“You didn’t tie me to your chair.”

“I’m not done, actually.”

He tried to pull away, but her fingers grasped his shirt and she said, “Don’t go,” in a little voice. Given how little she could move, her grip was not strong, but Rhys still took the time to shush her and promise, “It’s fine, I won’t leave you. I just want to tie your legs.” And her fingers slipped away, permitting him to move.

He knelt down, white rope in hand. Now Belle’s eyes were opened, focused. She couldn’t see him as he tied her hands, but from that angle she could watch as he passed the rope under her left heel and over her foot, tying her shoe in place before moving on to her ankle. Just as he had done with her arms, he pulled the rope as if it were a puppet’s string, but this time he suspended her foot from the floor and tied it to the arm of her chair.

“Does it hurt your leg, my dear?” he asked, looking up and finding her inquisitive eyes.

“It does not,” she said. “But if you leave me here overnight, I might have to be carried home.”

He smirked at her. “Are you inviting yourself over, my dear?”

Belle seemed ready to give him a sharp reply, but she decided against it. A little grin would have to do. Rhys took advantage of the silence to cross the rope over to the other side of the chair and capture her right leg much in the same way.

He pushed the stool away and got up, suppressing a painful sound when his leg started to throb. She didn’t want to hear him complain, and he didn’t want to ruin this moment, which had been perfect, so far. All Rhys wanted to do was take a step back and look at her, look at what he had created.

“You do have good ideas, Rhys. I’ll give you that,” she said.

Right now, Rhys couldn’t argue. She looked beautiful like this.

“Is this how you imagined me?” Belle asked, turning her face and trying to look at him over her shoulder.

“It’s better.”

A single dimple showed up on her profile but she looked away before a full smile could be formed, leaving him with nothing but her long curls to stare at.

“And… what else did you imagine?”

Rhys sighed and took a step closer so that she could lean on his body again. Belle looked up at him, the top of her head against his stomach, her breasts exposed just enough to make it hard to look away. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, right then and there. He wanted to confess every thought of her that ever crossed his mind.

Of how he wanted to lean over and kiss her collarbone. Yes, that was still inappropriate, but better than asking to bite down on her breasts.

Of how he wanted to sit behind her and lift her skirt and stroke her thighs with the tips of his fingers. Just that wouldn’t be crossing any boundaries, wouldn’t you agree?

And if his hands happened to keep going up and up, until he found her panties, the sheer fabric wet and begging to be ripped off her body- well, he wouldn’t say no if she asked him to.

He wouldn’t say no to stroking her sex either.

Or fingering her.

Or making her climax once, or five times.

And then, he could drag that ugly chair back to the front of the shop and let her sit on it, so that everyone could see her naked, wasted, satisfied. And everyone would know that she belonged to him now.

Belle waited, eyes full of expectation. She wanted his words. Because she was not allowed to have anything else. Because she didn’t belong to him.

Rhys stroked her hair. “You’re a curious one.”

Belle blinked at him a few times, then looked away. She was quick to realize she wouldn’t be getting her wish, but that was not enough to make her shy away. If anything, it only made her lean closer, putting all of her weight on him, to keep him from disappearing without a warning.

“I thought you liked me curious,” she said, voice low, disappointed, but not unhappy.

He answered, “I do,” but that was all she’d get out of him.

“You want to untie me,” Belle said. A conclusion, not a question.

Rhys didn’t answer. He didn’t _want_ to untie her. He _had_ to. Any moment now, she’d have to go home.

“If you need to leave now-”

“I could stay a little longer, just a few minutes.” She looked up again. “While you work?”

Rhys thought about it. First, rationally, as it was his way. It was wiser to just let her go now. The sooner she left, the sooner he’d be able to get his head together. And he’d never be able to do anything as long as Belle were sitting a few feet away.

But then again, he could leave her there, tied up and beautiful, asking to be admired. Just for a few minutes. There was no harm in that.

And after all… truly, he was in no hurry to let her go.


	10. My Sunday Rest (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gold gets some upsetting news from his son. And then he gets a new client. This chapter was being so problematic that I decided to split it in two parts. Forgive the lack of smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: maddiebonanafana  
> Consultant: rainydaybatsy answered a lot of questions about Architecture School. Thank you for putting up with my questions!

Some days were bad and Rhys could just feel them from the moment he opened his eyes. Rainy days, usually, though he had no idea what that had to do with it. There was probably some technical explanation that a doctor could give him on why his leg bothered him the most when it was about to rain, but Rhys never cared to ask. Maybe it was all in his head. He'd broken his ankle in the middle of a storm and now, like a good Pavlovian dog, he couldn't hear the sound of approaching thunder without associating it with pain. He wished lying in bed helped, but in days like this it didn't matter. Today was one of those really bad, not so good, terrible days and his leg was going to bother him no matter what position he lied in.

Just perfect.

Getting out of bed was the hardest. Rhys had a particular dislike for early mornings on the weekends. He'd never had the option of sleeping in before he started working for Jefferson, and now that he had, he liked to abuse that privilege. If it was up to him, he'd stay under the covers until the storm had passed. However, finding a distraction was the best way to deal with the pain, so he overcame the laziness and limped downstairs.

Bae was already at the kitchen table, looking like he wanted to be anything but awake right now. He was staring at the coffee machine with such intent one would've thought it was responsible for taking him out of bed. Though he already had the suit on, the tie was waiting on the table.

“What are you doing up so early?” Rhys asked.

Bae looked away from the coffee machine to glance at his father with sleepy eyes and say, “Hey.”

“Hey?”

“Uhmmm,” Bae shook his head, trying to get his thoughts in order. “Hey is not an answer to your question. Coffee. I'm doing coffee.”

“Making.”

“Whatever. Want some?”

“Sure.”

Rhys pulled up a chair for himself, then another to rest his leg on. Bae didn't seem to notice.

“Did you get up early, or did you just get home?”

“I got up,” he groaned, very displeased with that fact. “Remember when I said we were falling behind schedule?”

“Yes?”

“We have definitely fallen behind schedule. Like, dropped. Like a rock.”

“Is that so?”

“We are bad, bad architects.”

“Technically, you're only an intern.”

“Yes, can you call Hader and tell him that? And that I shouldn't have to come in on a Sunday morning because of his poor time management skills? And since we're at it, call him a dick.”

“Will that be all, Mr. Gold?”

“Yeah.” He yawned, loudly. “What's your excuse for the early rising?”

“It's going to rain.”

Bae blinked at him a couple of times, his brain slowly processing the information, until it finally made sense.

“Your leg hurts.”

“More like it's killing me.”

“Shit. I need an umbrella.”

“Yes, how's that for weather forecast?” he joked, but another jolt of pain made him wince.

“Maybe I should stay home and take care of you,” Neal said, hopeful. “Hader can't fire me for wanting to care for my elderly father.”

“ _Elderly?”_

“Shush. He doesn't have to know.”

“How nice. Unfortunately for you, I'm on my way out as well.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I'm not going to stay home, mulling over the pain, when I can be at the shop, mulling over the pain _and_ doing something productive. It's almost October and if I don't get rid of some of those orders before the month is over I'll be overflowing with work within a week.”

Bae yawned again and got up to fetch his father a mug. “I just don't know why you don't work from the house.”

“Because I'm not an invalid.”

“But the pawnshop is almost always closed, anyway. And when was the last time you sold anything?”

For a split-second, the chair flashed inside his head. Somewhere around Monday, he'd started to refer to it as “Belle's chair” and, after that, he just knew he wouldn't be moving it back to the front of the shop. It was currently in his office, patiently waiting for her to return while feeding him new ideas every day. Technically, that had been the last item officially out of his inventory, and he had purchased it himself.

Bae went on, “You could just bring your things here, turn the spare bedroom into your studio. You know, so you'd be more comfortable. Do you want the mug with the dick or the mug with the boobs?”

“I want a regular mug that was not a gag gift from Jefferson.”

“You're no fun.”

Bae gave him one of the Father's Day mugs he'd collected over the years. Rhys glanced at the message (“Well done, dad! I turned out great!”) and gave it a little smile.

“All I'm saying,” Bae continued, pouring them coffee, “is that you don't have to commute to the other side of Boston every day. It's not like I'm a kid anymore and you have to keep the porn locked away. You can't shock me.”

“Wanna bet?”

“I really, really don't.” He sipped. “Besides, you'll have the whole house to yourself pretty soon.”

Rhys didn't say anything.

“Shaking things up a bit might be good for you.”

Rhys took a long sip from his mug, then said, “Have I ever told you that you lack subtlety?”

“You have,” Bae nodded. “I guess I took after mom.”

“You need to stop worrying about me.”

“I'm not worried,” Bae lied. “It's just that I've been reading on empty nest syndrome-”

Rhys rolled his eyes. Not this again.

“...and I think it would be nice if you got a hobby. And, you know, made this place more _you_.”

A hobby. Well, at least he didn't say _girlfriend_ this time.

“I can't very well just change everything. I mean, you _will_ visit.”

“Of course, but-”

“And some day you and Tamara will have kids, and _they_ will visit. I can't just clutter the spare bedroom.”

“I broke up with Tamara.”

Rhys looked up at him. “Come again?”

Bae shrugged.

“When?”

“A couple of weeks ago.”

“But what about New York?”

Bae hissed his teeth, bracing himself. “About that...”

“Yes?”

“I'm still going.”

“ _By yourself_?”

“I'm sure I can find a roommate.”

If his leg wasn't bothering him so much, Rhys would have jumped out of his chair in protest. As it was, he only raised his voice. “You want to share your apartment with a random _stranger_? I don't approve of this!”

“I thought you wouldn't.” Bae got up. “Which is why I dropped this information when I'm about to walk out the door.”

“Baelfire-”

“You'll have an entire day to mull it over and not overreact when we meet for dinner. The cleverness of me!”

Rhys shook his head. Bae had taken after his mothers bluntness and stubbornness, but he did have a little bit of his own cunning, which worked against his father more often than not.

Baelfire leaned over to kiss his cheek. “I'll call if I'm late.”

Rhys said his name again, but his son was gone before he had the chance to say anything else, be it demand they had that conversation now, or just remind him to put on his tie on the way out.

 

*

 

Thinking back, it had been naive of him, but Rhys actually believed that he'd stop worrying about his son someday. Maybe when Baelfire was old enough to shave. As far as he could remember, his own father couldn't wait to get away from him, and that was long before Rhys became a grown man.

But as it turned out, you never really stopped worrying; if anything, things only got worse from the moment they found out they didn't _have_ to call you and ask permission to do anthing or go anywhere. Nowadays, it wasn't unusual for Bae to leave in the morning and come back late at night, after having a beer with friends, leaving nothing but scattered voice mails.

Baelfire was a good son. He tried to indulge him with family dinners and surprise lunch visits because he didn't want his old man to be lonely. And he did love him, Rhys wasn't questioning that. But Bae didn't need him anymore. He sure as hell wouldn't allow his father to get in the way of his great New York City adventure, which was the only thing he could talk about ever since he met Tamara.

Not that Rhys could blame the girl for putting the idea in his head (though he did, quite bitterly). Bae had taken after his mother in more than just his temper. Milah was a free-spirited woman who never liked to be tied down to one place – or one person, for that matter. The fact that she had agreed to become someone's wife was a surprise. The moment another man came along, offering all the things that Rhys didn't, plus a boat to sail the world, she couldn't wait to get away from Boston. And now it was Baelfire's turn to do the same. He'd get away to live his own great adventure.

A great adventure in a crime-ridden, Yankee city where he'd be living with a stranger, and maybe give him a call once every other month.

Rhys decided it was a good day to open the bottle of Scotch he kept hidden for special occasions. Usually, it was reserved for when Jefferson was driving him crazy, or one of his friends came over to get measured for custom-made items; but rainy days, with the addition of Baelfire related issues, were also a good reason. It was not the time to be picky.

He was finishing his first glass when Regina called. He looked at her name, flashing on the screen of his cellphone, accompanied by a dark melody Jefferson had picked for him, and considered not answering the call. He'd been in the shop for two hours now, and nothing in his to-do list had been checked out because he couldn't focus on work. He shouldn't have to add her whining and complaining to a painful leg and the stress of fatherhood.

On the other hand... she might give him the excuse he'd been waiting for to start a fight, and he'd _love_ a scapegoat right now, especially if the goat came in the form of Regina Mills.

Arming himself with his most hostile tone, he answered the call, demanding, “What is it that you want?”

Silence.

Rhys grinned to himself. This was starting out extremely well if he'd caught Regina's tongue so easily.

Then, a shy little voice asked, “Hello, is this Mr. Gold?” and Rhys was the one to be left speechless when he recognized Belle's accent on the other side of the line.

“Mr. Gold? Hello?” To someone else, she said, “I think he might have been disconnected. I can call later-”

“No, no, I'm here,” he rushed in. “I'm sorry. I was expecting someone else.”

Another voice, far into the background, asked, “Is that him?”

Belle came in again, saying, “Hello. Hi. My name is Belle French, I work for Miss Mills. She told me you might be able to help me.”

“You... I'm... sorry?”

“She gave me this number,” Belle explained, her voice urgent, not giving him the chance to speak. “I'm in need of a Halloween costume and she said you're making hers, and _my fiance_ dislikes everything I picked so far.”

Belle stopped. Rhys gave himself a moment to analyze the way she had emphasized the words “my fiance”, and concluded, “Is he in there with you?”

“Yes, very much so,” Belle answered, and judging by her voice, the whole situation was making her very uncomfortable. Not that he could blame her. It clearly hadn't been her choice to call him. “But I imagine you're a very busy man, and you must have better things to do on the weekend. I don't want to impose.”

Rhys tapped his fingers on his desk. She was asking him to bow out of the conversation before things got worse, which only added to his confusion. What the hell was going on?

“Mr. Gold?” she asked, a hint of annoyance in her voice.

“My shop doesn't open on Sundays, Miss French,” he said, and there was a flow of static that could only mean Belle was sighing with relief on the other side of the line.

“Of course, I understand,” she said.

Rhys got ready to hang up, when he caught a glimpse of the chair – _her_ chair – in the corner.

Hurriedly, he added, with a softer voice, “And besides, I am all alone this afternoon. I'd hate for someone to come in and distract me from my work.”

He waited to see what she was going to do.

After a moment of silence, Belle asked, “Is that so?”

“It is. Having you and your fiance over would be such a nuisance.”

Silence again.

Then, she spoke to the other people in the room, “He said he might be able to fit me in, at 3pm.”

A male voice replied, and there was a short debate that he couldn't make out, but that resulted in Belle telling him, “My fiance won't be able to accompany me at this time, Mr. Gold. But I can meet you there, if you're okay with it.”

Rhys bit down on his lips to keep himself from grinning. She couldn't see it, but he still didn't want to take any chances.

“I'm okay with it,” he said.

“I'll meet you in a couple of hours. Thank you, Mr. Gold.”

“Miss French?” he called, before she had the chance to hang up.

“Yes?”

“I haven't given you my address yet.”

 

 


	11. My Sunday Rest (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys and Belle talk about what happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a chapter split in two parts, but as it turned out, it got too long, so there's a Part II being written. I'm sorry for the lack of smut.

  
  


Although Rhys was against hoping for the best on principle, he still dared to dream that his leg would’ve stopped bothering him by the time Belle arrived at his shop. Maybe the happiness he was experiencing at the prospect of seeing her would be so overwhelming that it would blind him to the pain and heal his pathetic limp, so that when Belle saw him, he’d be standing straight and walking like a regular man, and not like an invalid. She’d never mentioned his disability before, nor had she spared more than a glance at his cane, but it probably bothered her. It was a constant reminder of their age difference. Her fiance was probably fit, some sort of brute football player who never had bad days like this, when it was a struggle just to get out of bed. Today, standing around was only making things worse, and sitting down only made his old wound throb. When he heard the distant sound of thunder, Rhys could swear the bones in his foot were rumbling along. By three o’clock, as the rain began to pour down, he almost considered calling her back and canceling their meeting, but ultimately decided against it. It’d been over ten days since the last time they’d spoken.

He’d untied her from the chair - Belle’s chair - his eyes attentive to the rope marks on her skin, tracing such a beautiful pattern that it was almost a pity that her fiance wouldn’t even see it. If he could, he’d display those marks on the window, for everyone to see. Once she was freed, he’d secured her firmly and helped her out of the chair. Belle tottered a bit and got up from her chair a little less gracefully than when she had sat down, which only gave him an excuse to hold her close, her back to him, her hair (the tight bun he had made himself) just underneath his nose. He tried not to breathe as not to startle her, enjoying those last few moments as the precious thing they were.

“When will you come back?” he said, so close to her ear that it sounded like a whisper.

“I’m not sure,” she answered, relaxed under his grip and giving no indication that she wanted to get away from him.

Thinking back, they should’ve worked out the details of their arrangement before it even started. He thought about bringing it up before she left (We need to figure out a schedule. Should we check our agendas? Is this a weekly thing? Do you want me at you beck and call? Because I will be. I will do this however you want it.”) but he didn’t, too afraid that pressing the issue would only make her realize what a big mistake she was making.

Belle took a step forward and Rhys allowed her to slip away from his fingers without saying another word, even though there was a strong urge to plead for her to stay a little longer.

“I’ll call you as soon as I can,” she’d promised, offering a neutral smile and passing a glance over his lips, as if considering a kiss. They were only a few feet away. If she decided to lean over and actually- but she decided against it and left before any of them could get more bad ideas.

Her absence made the pawnshop feel even emptier than it usually was. The process of collecting the rope and pulling the chair to a corner only accentuated that the whole thing was over, and gave it a strange, detached feeling to it. Was it even real? He remembered tracing the rope around her body and brushing the tip of his fingers on her skin, but now that she was gone, it all might very well have happened inside his head.

There was a text message the next day, stating that she’d had fun and thanking him for his care and patience. It took Rhys two hours to think of the perfect reply ( _The pleasure was all mine. I’m always here if you need me._ ) and it still made him feel like an idiot. A _needy_ idiot. She reiterated the promise to contact him again as soon as things “quieted down”, whatever the hell that meant, and then she went completely silent. Regardless of the promise, Rhys wondered if she’d ever come back.

When Belle arrived at the shop, though, all doubts in his mind vanished. He should’ve trusted her. During the one year that they’d worked together, she’d never broken her word, there was no reason to start doing that now.

The moment he opened the door, she rushed in holding down her skirt with one hand and fighting an oversized umbrella with the other, urging him, “Shut the door! Shut the door! Shut the door!”

Before Rhys had the chance to obey, a gush of wind came in and blew the umbrella to the other side of the room, knocking half a tea set off the counter. After struggling with the lock for a moment (planting both feet on the ground and putting his weight on them proved to be a bad idea), Rhys managed to close the door and take a good look outside. It was quite a storm. And Bae had probably forgotten to bring an umbrella to work. He always did. How did he expect to live by himself in New York City if he was always forgetting things like that?

“I am so sorry, Mr. Gold,” she said, running after the umbrella and collecting the tea set from the floor. “I’ll pay for it.”

“You’d be the first to buy anything in here in a very long time,” he replied, eyes on the storm. Then he heard the clinking of porcelain and turned around to find her trying to rearrange the tea cups that had fallen on the floor. “Leave it, Belle. It’s not worth much.”

“I’m so sorry. What terrible weather. And they said it was going to b sunny all weekend.”

Rhys opened his mouth to say one whould never trust the weather forecast, and how his leg had been bothering him all day because of the bloody rain. But then he decided against it. There was no reason to bring his injury up. It wasn’t a funny anecdote, as Milah had repeatedly told him.

“Are you alright?” Belle asked, after he didn’t say anything and just stood there with his mouth half-open.

Rhys made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I’m just thinking of my son. He probably forgot his umbrella. That silly boy.”

“You’d tell me if I were intruding, right?”

“What? No. You’re not.”

“Because when you said you were busy, I thought you were-”

“I was. It’s just been a long day. I got here early.”

Belle came around the counter and said, “I can always come back another time, if you’d like.”

Rhys gave her a look over. She was soaked from her curls to her ankle boots. The carefully applied make-up was smudged, which only reminded him of the first day she’d followed him to the back of the shop and allowed him to spank her. Her white blouse was clinging to her body, leaving very little of what lied underneath to the imagination.

There was no chance in hell he was sending her away now.

“I can make time,” Rhys said. “It’s only work.”

She gave him a smile, framed by long wet locks of brown hair. “New things?”

“A few. THough they’re mostly for Halloween.”

He indicated the back with a nod and Belle didn’t hesitate to go through the curtain. Rhys waited for her to be gone before following in his slow steps, glad that she was too excited to pay attention to him.

Belle stood in the middle of his office, looking around like a child in a candy store. Maybe some day he’d be brave enough to tell her to strip to her bra and panties and wait for him right at that same spot, but on her knees. He had no idea how long they still had before she gave in to the fiance’s insistence and picked a date for the wedding, but maybe there’d be time for that.

“I see you’ve kept yourself busy, she remarked, surrounded by his work. She noticed the bottle of whiskey sitting on his desk. “And that you’re having a bad day.”

“I only had one glass, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said. “Though my bad day got curious quite quickly, if I may say so.”

He spoke in good nature, but Belle only replied by shaking her head without saying anything, pretending to be too enthralled by his creations to answer the implied question in there. Rhys waited, allowing her to pace the room, eyes aimlessly in search of something that excited her. The feathers she’d loved so much were gone, as were most of the paddles. The basket by the door was filled with new things that actually made her frown in curiosity, but she held her questions for the moment. Rhys was very aware that nothing made a lot of sense right now. He’d spent the past few days focusing on getting ready for Halloween, more specifically finishing costumes. That always left him overflowing with work by the time October arrived, no matter how early he started the process. He’d even put away the cot to make room for two mannequins; the first one was of a male torso covered in braided leather straps that were beginning to take shape, and the second a female one, over which he’d drapped a long red cape that Belle immediately identified.

“Red Riding Hood.”

“Yes.”

“Gorgeous.”

“Thank you.”

“What are you doing with it?”

“It’s mostly done. I just have to add these.”

He showed her a pair of silver claps shaped like the head of a wolf and held them over the pins that pulled both sides of the cape together.

“You are so detailed,” she said, sounding truly impressed.

“Jefferson just says I’m fastidious.”

“Fastidious is a good thing to be. But shouldn’t they be at the neck?” she asked, noticing that the cape actually closed over the breasts.

“Yes. No. That’s the way she wanted it.”

“Are you making the rest as well?”

“There’s no rest.”

Belle turned to look at him. Rhys offered her a shrug. “She’ll just... close it over her breasts and put on some panties. At least, I assume there are panties involved. That seems to be optional for Jefferson’s Halloween Orgy.”

Her eyes grew in size.

“Which I’m now realizing is probably the party you need a costume for to begin with,” he added, quickly, before she gave up the idea of a costume altogether, “so I should probably make it clear that it’s not an _actual_ orgy. As far as I know. It’s just that I’ve done some... crazy costumes over the years. So I just call it that.”

“Good,” Belle said, breathing again. “Good thing. For a moment there, I thought Regina was trying to get back at me again.”

Belle stroked the cape. Velvet. Rhys had been told it felt amazing against naked skin, and it looked even better. To wear anything in between, he heard, would be a sin and a waste. He probably shouldn’t, but if Belle asked to try it on, he wouldn’t hesitate and let her try it.

“Regina called your number before I had the chance to do anything about it,” Belle said, out of the blue, pulling him away from his thoughts. “I didn’t want to put you in a difficult position. Nor do I get off on lying to Gaston like that.”

“You didn’t put me in a difficult position, and I’m not in a position to judge.”

“It’s one thing for me to lie to Gaston,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “I didn’t want to involve you.”

It’s alright, Belle. I do not mind. I’m more than familiar with Regina’s twisted sense of humor. That’s how she likes to treat her friends, I suppose.”

Belle looked at him, surprised. “You do know I’m her cleaner.”

Rhys stared back at her. “No,” he said. “I always assumed she picked you out of a college campus.”

“I don’t go to college,” she confessed, and her tone was so ashamed that Rhys wanted to tell her that it was okay, that he had never gone to college either. A lot of people didn’t. But she continued before he even opened his mouth. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I broke something, this ridiculous hand mirror. I do that sometimes, I’m clumsy.”

“I’m sure you’re not.”

“I am. Very much so. Usually, she takes it out of my check, but today she was feeling particularly bitchy, I guess. She brushed it off as an accident and left me alone for the rest of the morning. The moment Gaston shows up to pick me up, though, she shoves her cellphone in my hand, acting all helpful, saying she knows just the person who can help me with my costume for Jefferson’s Halloween party.” Belle noticed she was squeezing the velvet into a closed fist and let go of it to pace the room again. After a moment, she continued, “I saw your name and I thought I was going to faint. I don’t like being caught off guard, and Gaston was standing _right there_.”

“You should sit down,” he said, softly, noticing her growing agitation.

“I don’t need to sit down, I need to punch Regina in the face.”

Rhys offered her a smirk. “Which is also a valid option that I wholeheartedly support. But for now, just sit down and take a deep breath.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder and guided her to the corner where her chair awaited. For all her reluctance, once he got her there, she slumped down without another argument. He poured her one finger of Scotch and offered it to her.

Belle drank first and then asked, “Should we be drinking?”

“We’re not. We drank one sip each. After the day we had, I think we deserve it.” He took the glass back to the desk and asked, “Do you think Regina knows?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “She just wanted to make him suspicious about my second job. When she first handed the phone to me, she had it on speaker.” Belle shuddered. “Can’t even imagine what a mess that would’ve been. She knows I haven’t told Gaston about what I do for you guys, and if he’d heard you call me by my name... that would’ve been hard to explain.” She pointed at the bottle of Scotch. “What’s your story?”

Rhys leaned back on his desk and crossed his arms, cane still at hand in case he lost his equilibrium. “Misadventures in parenting. Nothing as exciting as yours.”

Belle let out a joyless chuckle. “I suppose that’s one name for it.” Then she tried to put a smile on her face. “So I take it you’ve never been to the orgy.”

Rhys blinked at her. “Pardon me?”

“Jefferson’s Halloween-”

“Right.”

Her smile dissolved into laughter. “I should’ve phrased it better.”

“Yes. Probably. But no, I’ve never been. He always invites me, but I’m not a party person. My son says it’s epic, though. And I make a lot of the costumes.”

“That must be a lot of work.”

“You overestimate the amount of fabric these people wear.” He pointed at the male mannequin. “That’s is supposed to be a gladiator, and there isn’t much left to do.”

“And me thinking you might help me get away from all the nudity.”

“Yet, you know what I do for a living.”

“Fair enough.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to,” she said, almost apologetic. “I can always tell Gaston we didn’t agree on a price. I just came by for a visit.”

“Which is always much appreciated, but maybe I can help.”

“But we _won’t_ agree on a price,” she pointed out. “I’ve been to the shop. I know how much you charge.”

“Yes, but you are my tester,” Rhys said.

“You want me to test a costume? I don’t think Jefferson will buy that.”

“Leave Jefferson to me.”

Belle tapped on the armrests, as if looking for another excuse to give him. She must have found none, because she said, “I don’t really know what I want. At first, we were going to do couple costumes, as tacky as that sounds. But we couldn’t agree on anything. Though, to be fair, being Beauty and the Beast or Cyrano and Roxanne are a little unflattering on him.”

 _He knows Cyrano de Bergerac? That’s a shocker_ , Rhys thought, biting his tongue not to say it out loud.

“When that idea flew out of the window, I got stuck. I’ve showed him some options, but he thinks everything I chose is ugly and refuses to p-”

She cut herself short and stared at him with wide eyes, realizing she’d said too much.

Rhys pretended not to understand what she’d almost let slip and asked, “So we’re starting from scratch.”

“Yes. We’re starting from scratch.”

“Very well. If that’s the case...” he said, pushing himself from the desk with the intent to go around it and get a measuring tape from inside his drawer. As if with every client, he was going to need her measurements. And that meant that she’d probably have to remove her clothes.

Everything that followed happened very fast. One moment, he was floating in a happy fantasy of watching Belle strip in front of a mirror.

The next, his foot landed on the floor and sent a jolt of pain so powerful up his leg that he lost his balance and landed face first on the carpet.

 


	12. My Sunday Rest (Part III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle comes to Gold's rescue and makes an intersting suggestion on how to pass time. A lot of awkwardness, some caning, tickling, and objectification.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: maddiebonanafana

The realization of what had happened came to him in fragments. First, the thud of his body hitting the floor. Then, the sound of Belle jumping off her chair and screaming, “Oh my god! Are you okay?”

In his confusion, which was quickly turning into a deep understanding of his humiliation, Rhys didn’t bother assessing how he felt before urging her, “No, don’t get up, I’m fine.” It didn’t make those words true, though. His ego was the first part of him to feel the pain, but it didn’t take long for it to spread to the rest of his body, ankle first, then his hipbone, then the cheek that had landed on the carpet. He flexed his ankle to make sure everything was alright, so that he could get up and prove to Belle that there was nothing to worry about. The effort only made him wince. There was no way he was getting off that floor without help.

Belle, not heeding his pleas to stay put, was already by his side, one hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t see her face, which was a good thing, as far as Rhys was concerned. If he saw pity and worry in her eyes, he might never be able to look at her again.

He turned on his right side slowly. The muscles in his arm didn’t appreciate the weight of his body on them, but that was the least of his worries right now.

“I lost my footing,” he said.

“Are you hurt?” she insisted, and Rhys could feel her attentive eyes giving him a look over. Despite her concern, that only made him feel self-conscious. Not an hour ago, he was fantasizing about standing on both legs in front of her, his cane left to the side; now, he was sprawled on the carpet, trying to overcome his body’s limitations just to get off the floor.

“Maybe you shouldn’t move,” Belle suggested, when he managed to sit up, fighting any undignified sounds that were trying to escape his lips. He knew she was right, there was no telling how his body would react when - and if - he got up, though he wasn’t holding his breath.

“Can you wait for me outside? I just need a moment,” he asked, trying to talk through the pain as naturally as he could. If Belle could grant him that small favor of stepping out of the room for a couple of minutes, he could drag himself to a chair and think of a good excuse to send her away. What was left of his dignity might not be intact, but at least it wouldn’t be completely lost.

Belle was adamant, though, “I’m not leaving you like this.”

“I’m fine-”

“Stop saying you’re fine! You just fell on the floor-”

“Belle-”

“I just want to help you to a chair. Just to make sure you’re safe.”

Rhys almost snapped at her, claiming that he was, in fact, _perfect_ , and that he didn’t require any help. He’d been living like this for fifteen years now, long before she’d come into his life. He was a grown man, and not an invalid, despite the overwhelming evidence on the contrary. There was no need to nurse him like that.

In reality, though, he was _not_ perfect and he needed _a lot_ of help. If it was left to him, it was possible that he wouldn’t be able to get off the floor at least for the next ten minutes. Assuming he wouldn't have to call Bae to come to his rescue, though he’d only done that once, and his son had fussed over him so much that he’d rather not repeat the experience.

Besides, when Belle looked at him like that, her eyes so soft, yet so stubborn, and so full of worry, well, he found it hard to deny her anything.

“There we go,” she cooed him, sounding very pleased that he stopped resisting her and allowed her to pass an arm around his waist.

Rhys put most of his weight on his good leg and, with her help, hoisted himself up. For such a small person, Belle was surprisingly strong, even though it was clearly a struggle to keep her balance in those heels. He just prayed she wouldn’t break _her_ ankle, because then they’d be in trouble. He hopped two steps forward, until she could drop him on her chair with all the grace of a potato sack. His pride didn’t feel any better, but it was still a relief to be off the floor.

“Sorry about that,” he said, his voice low.

“Why are you apologizing?” she said. “Accidents happen. Did you hurt anything?”

Rhys paid attention to his body. Other than the blasted ankle, every other ache was fading to a discomfort.

“No, I don’t think I did.”

“I think that will leave a bruise,” she told him, kneeling down to take a better look at his face. He startled when a single finger brushed very softly over the pained spot on his left cheek. Belle recoiled immediately.

“I’ll put on some ice once I get home,” he said, turning his face away from her.

Belle lowered her hand, but didn’t move from his side.

“You can... have that chair, if you’d like,” he said, pointing at the one behind his desk. He’d gladly trade seats with her, though. It felt so strange to be on the old, ugly Victorian replica he’d all but given her. It didn’t belong to him anymore. Besides, maybe by the time Belle was done bringing the other chair around, a miracle would happen and he’d be able to walk again.

But Belle just gave the chair behind the desk a glance, then said, “I’m fine like this.”

Rhys opened his mouth to insist and say that she shouldn’t be so stubborn, sitting on the floor would do her no good, when she added, “I really don’t mind kneeling at your feet. If you don’t mind it, either.”

It was a quiet confession, full of caution. For the first time, she’d taken her eyes off of him, as if fearing his judgment. That, more than anything, put him at ease, the thought that she was placing herself in such a vulnerable position, offering another piece of herself for him to either take or scorn. Not for the first time, Rhys wondered how this little woman had gotten so brave. He was burning with shame from something he had no control over, but she gave herself openly, submitting something as intimate as that to his approval, unafraid of what he might do with it.

Rhys could never do that.

“I don’t mind,” he stated, too overwhelmed to say anything else.

“I can wait here,” she said, sitting on her heels. “Just until you feel better.”

He nodded. Though Belle hadn’t asked, Rhys explained, “It’s an old injury. Sometimes it bothers me. Especially when it rains. It’s never this bad, though. I think age is catching up to me. Do you mind if I take off my shoes?”

He was babbling. He shouldn’t babble.

Belle said, “It’s your shop, you know?”

“Fair point.”

Rhys toed off his right shoe. Pain blasted for a second, and then quieted down considerably. It wasn’t much, but it was still an improvement. He bent over to take the other one off as well, but Belle said, “Here, allow me,” and took a hold of it in her small hands. Even though that leg wasn’t bothering him, she still pulled off his shoe gently, and looked up to check if he was doing alright. He was. Though the sight of Belle on her knees was quite distracting. Rhys couldn’t help but imagine what a treat it would be to come home to someone as sweet as this, who’d be willing to kneel at his feet at the end of the day and remove his shoes so carefully. He could sit at his favorite armchair in the living room, give her an exceptionally large and fluffy cushion to rest on, then share a glass of Scotch with her as they talked about their day.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly.

“You’re welcome.”

Belle unzipped her ankle boots and placed them with his shoes, underneath her chair, as if they were part of the same set.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “This is probably not what you had in mind when you agreed to come over.”

“It’s alright. Sometimes it’s nice just to talk,” she shrugged, crossing her legs at the ankles and curling them under her body. To Rhys, she looked like a mermaid in a storybook.

“Bae always tells me I should get this checked out, but I just never do it.”

“Do you need me to call him? Or a doctor?”

“No, this comes and goes. It’s more of a bother than anything else.”

“Do you mind if I ask how...”

She trailed off.

“I got into a fight when I was younger.”

Belle gave him a crooked smile, probably imagining his younger self trading punches with some ruffian in front of a Scottish pub when he was a little more than a scrappy teenager. “You don’t strike me as a troublemaker.”

“I was young and stupid once,” he said, deciding to leave it at that. It was a better image than his thirty-year-old self being pushed into a dirty alley, cornered by five young men as he was leaving the bank.

He stretched his neck, looking at the cupboard.

Belle immediately asked, “Do you need me to get you anything?”

“No. I should keep my foot up, but I put the cot away because of the mannequins. I don’t really have a place to unfold it anyway.”

“Belle seemed to think about it, clearly trying to come up with a solution to his problem. Not that it was a particularly complicated issue to solve. If she were kind enough to fetch the other chair, that would be enough. And then she could come back to his right side and they could continue to just talk. He wouldn’t mind that at all, as long as she didn’t either.

When she started moving, he almost told her to, please, bring the pillow inside the cupboard as well. For her, that is, there was no reason why she should sit on the cold, hard floor.

But then she stood in front of his chair, on her hands and knees, and Rhys forgot how to breathe, let alone form words.

A very long moment of stunned silence followed. How does one react to an offer such as this? Rhys searched her face for any indication of discomfort, even though the idea had been hers to begin with. He didn’t want her to think he was imposing, or maybe that he was implying that he expected her, as his... what? Play partner? She wasn’t his submissive, that much he knew. Much less his girlfriend. It was hard to find a word to define his relationship with Belle French. Regardless, he didn’t expect her to get on her hands and knees and act like a footrest just because he was in pain - no matter how aroused that idea was quickly making him.

However, from what Rhys could see of her profile, she didn’t look troubled at all by the gesture. It was clear that she was making an effort to keep her eyes forward and her face stoic, as if to compensate for the deep shade of red that was tinting her cheeks, but if anything, she looked more hopeful than anything else. Another piece of herself for his consideration. And this one was particularly intriguing. Rhys could understand the appeal of the spanking and the ropes, yet this felt more personal. This wasn’t just Belle experimenting with a toy or a trend, but showing him a deep desire to submit, to kneel for him and be nothing more than his object - his footrest and, god, the thought of it was enough to make him dizzy because he had the privilege to see this. No one else did.

Rhys moved slowly, because of the pain as well as expecting her to give this up at any moment. But as soon as his right foot touched her lower back, he retrieved.

“Actually,” he said, making her turn, “I think... we could do better than that.”

Belle seemed a little alarmed. It had probably taken her a lot more courage to make that effort than Rhys first realized.

“You had a fantastic idea, my dear,” he soothed her. “But there is something I’ve just finished that I’d like to try, if you’re up to it.”

“What did you have in mind?” she asked, unmoved from her position.

“In the basket, by the door, there’s something that looks like a long feather duster. I’d like you to bring it to me.”

“I can see it,” she said, sitting back on her heels and getting ready to stand up.

“Crawl,” he said, almost adding a question mark to the end of that sentence.

Belle glanced at him and Rhys could’ve sworn he saw a shiver go through her body. He should’ve spoken with more authority, she might have appreciated that. But now, she’d already set herself in motion, clearly making an effort to move her hands and knees as gracefully as she could. It still looked a little clumsy, but it gave him a perfect view of her ass. The hem of her skirt was still soaked from the rain, and the fabric stuck to her skin, outlining her cheeks. They’d look much more beautiful after a spanking, though, openly displayed to his eyes, the new bruises starting to form as she crawled away from him with a satisfied smile.

Belle looked at the basket and reached for the object he’d requested, but then retrieved her hand.

“Should I use my mouth?”

“Yes- No. No, on second thought, that might be very impractical. Just bring it over.”

The distance between them was not so long and she could’ve easily handed it from where she was, but she crawled back to stand in front of him. When he tried to take it, she placed it between her lips either way, her teeth making a soft, biting sound as they closed around it. Against the black leather, her lips looked even more red. He must’ve looked baffled, because she giggled.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he said, shaking his head at her and taking the cane from her lips.

“Is that a bad thing, Mr. Gold?” she asked.

“It remains to be seen.”

“What is this for?” she asked, staring at the unfamiliar object with curious eyes. Rhys had put it together using a rattan cane, no more than four feet. He’d painted it black and added long, fluffy white feathers on the other end, which only accentuated the contrast between the hard and the soft. Overall, he liked the idea, but the prototype was far from being his best work. And if she was offering to be his tester, he might as well take advantage of it.

“It’s for impact play,” he explained. “I haven’t tested it yet, though.”

“Ah, I was wondering when I was going to get to test something new. Are the feathers just a styling choice?”

“I’ll show you. Get back on your knees.”

“I am on my knees.”

He smirked at her. “You’re feeling cheeky, aren’t you?”

“You like me cheeky,” she said, but returned to the exact position she had before, with her head to his left and her ass to his right, where his strong hand was.

“Lift your skirt for me,” he said, putting a little more firmness in his voice.

She didn’t hesitate to pull her skirt up, revealing the curve of her ass and white panties that didn’t leave much to the imagination. He could see the thin lacy fabric disappearing between her cheeks, so different from the cotton panties she’d wear the first time he’d given her a spanking. It wasn’t hard to assume she’d dressed with the intention of showing them off.

Rhys placed his right foot to pin his skirt down in place. Belle was short and it didn’t provide as much relief as the cot would, but right now he couldn’t care less. He lifted his left foot as well and waited to see how she’d react to it. Belle didn’t move, but seemed to be evaluating the feeling of his feet on her lower back.

“Am I too heavy?”

“No. It’s okay.”

“Then you should mind your posture.”

He used the cane to lift her chin. Belle smiled.

“You’e always complaining about my posture.”

“Yet, you never learn.”

“Yes. What are you going to do about that?”

Rhys gave her the answer the was expecting: a solid whack of the cane on her backside. She startled and let out a little squeal, which dissolved into a series of giggles.

“That _stings_!” she said, more amused than anything else.

“Is it worse than the paddle?”

“It’s... different. Sharper. But not bad.”

“Then keep your head up.”

“Yes, Mr. Gold.”

“And pull your hair over your right shoulder. I need a clear view of your face.”

Belle did as she was told.

Rhys took a better hold of the cane, right beneath the feathers, and used it to stroke her cheeks. She purred. That distance was perfect.

“Are you ready, my dear?”

“Yes, Mr. Gold.”

Despite the hard first stroke, Rhys was careful with the second one, and it barely got a gasp out of her. Her entire body shook though, and, on top of her, his right foot didn’t appreciate that. To firm it better, he crossed his legs at the ankles, right over left. It’d be best to rest on something that didn’t move, but what would be the fun in that?

“Try to be still.”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Gold.”

To her credit, she did make an effort, firming her hands on the floor and contracting her muscles, but it was impossible to be perfectly still, especially as he realized she was reacting to the caning so positively, letting out the loveliest sounds, and increased in strength. He took his time between strokes, pausing after each one just to watch her gasp and pant, and then relax as the sting quieted down. More than once he had to warn her, “Posture, Miss French,” in a serious tone, something that left no doubts that due punishment would follow - even though he was grinning like an idiot at the sight of her.

“This is clearly not persuading you to be any more obedient,” he said, after the third time she lowered her head. “Lets see how you do with the other side.”

“I don’t think your feathers will sting any worse,” she said, with a hint of defiance.

“No, quite the opposite.”

He turned the cane around and touched her backside with the feathers, sliding them very gently over her skin. From where he was, he saw her frowning, curious, as if awaiting for something to start.

“Ideally,” he explained, “this should tease the skin when it’s most sensitive.”

“Should it hurt?”

“After a thorough canning, it could.”

“Then you better be more _thorough_.”

“It’s not all it does,” he said, angling it to tease the inside of her cheeks, just where her white panties disappeared. “It’s also good for teasing the genitals.”

He applied a little more pressure on her crotch. There was an almost imperceptible shiver, as she said, “Yes, I can see how that might... be interesting.”

“And of course, for stubborn, disobedient ladies such as yourself, there is always the alternative...”

He lowered them down her thighs, making his aim very clear.

Belle immediately froze on the spot and said, “No, don’t you _dare_.”

Rhys stopped, right above the back of her knees - her lips were already twisting, a good sign, as far as he was concerned - and he asked, “Is that red or...?”

Belle considered it. “It’s... not. Just... proceed with caution?”

“Oh, I’m always cautious,” he said, reaching her bare feet and floating the feathers just above them, barely touching her soles. It was enough to make her gasp. “Quite ticklish, aren’t you?”

“A little bit,” she told him, lips almost closed to keep any giggles from coming out.

“A little bit?” He applied a little more pressure. This time, she laughed. “No, a little bit doesn’t cover it.”

Her fingers flexed on the wooden floor and her toes curled, but she didn’t move.

“I like it, though. Maybe this will persuade you to keep a better posture.”

“I’m persuaded! I’m persuaded!” she squealed, kicking the floor with her tiny feet, sending vibrations throughout her entire body.

Rhys laughed. “Look at that, it’s a vibrating footrest.”

Belle laughed as well, probably because of the feathers, though Rhys liked to think it was because she thought he was funny.

A little more pressure and she all but shouted, “ _Fuck_!”

“Language!” he said, turning the cane around to deliver a stroke with the other side.

After the tickling, she seemed relieved.

“God, you’re terrible!” she said.

“Good terrible?” he asked, giving her another smack.

Belle practically hummed. “ _Wonderful_ terrible. But terrible nonetheless.”

He dared to give her three in a row, which resulted in a soft “ _Ow_!” and a little squirming as she struggled not to cover her cheeks with her hands. She lowered her head again, though, which earned her another round of tickling on her soles.

“ _Fuckfuckfuck_!” she shrieked.

Rhys rolled his eyes. “Honestly, I should wash your pretty mouth with soap.”

“You think it’s pretty?” she shot back.

“You’re just trying my patience today. One would think you _want_ me to hit you harder.”

She giggled, as he delivered another stroke of the cane. “Now, why would I want that?”

“You tell me.”

She rolled her head from one side to the other, stretching her neck and considering the question. Rhys took the time to watch her backside, where a series of red stripes were beginning to form. Could she keep that a secret from her fiance? Did he even want her to?

“You always ask me that,” she finally said.

“You _are_ my tester, after all.”

“Still, there’s more than just the being on the receiving end.” She turned to look at him. “What do _you_ like about it?”

He raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

She wriggled her ass, taunting. “Caning me.”

He shrugged. “What is there not to like about a beautiful woman on her knees?”

Three strikes in sequence, just to distract her. But Belle didn’t drop the subject, no matter how happy that seemed to make her.

“It’s not a good answer,” she said. “Tell me, I want to know.”

Rhys shrugged again, fiddling with the cane. He never gave that too much thought, beyond the fact that Belle was a beautiful woman, and that he’d service her every need if given the chance. Thinking too much would only lead to the realization that this was all a really bad idea, and Rhys was enjoying the blissful ignorance of pretending their furtive meetings couldn’t possibly have terrible repercussions.

“Is it that you like to have someone to control?” she suggested.

“No,” he said, but then gave it some thought. “Not quite.”

“Not quite?”

He used the cane to stroke her red cheeks softly as he thought.

“I do enjoy being in charge,” he said. “I’m comfortable with it. It’s good to feel you have control over something. Or someone. Especially someone as beautiful as you.”

“Do you think I’m beautiful?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think I’m _more_ beautiful like this?”

“It’s a good look on you. And-” he hit her again, getting a squeal out of her. “You make the loveliest sounds. I could listen do it forever.”

“What else?”

“I don’t know.”

Belle turned around to give him an impatient look. Not that Rhys could blame her. At least when she gave a report, she tried to be thorough.

“I like...” he tried. “I suppose I like to feel needed. And that I can give you something that no one else can.”

“That’s true,” she agreed, finally looking away. “I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else.”

Rhys smiled, glad that she wasn’t looking at him.

“How’s your leg?” she asked.

“Terrible. How are your knees?”

“Stiff,” she laughed. “We didn’t think this through.”

“Yes. Now we know better,” he said, groaning as he put his feet down.

Belle sat back on her heels for a moment, then took the hand he was offering and got up.

“Can you show me?” he asked.

Though the request was vague, she didn’t hesitate to turn around and lift the skirt she’d just smoothed down, revealing the red stripes that covered her backside. He’d avoided her thighs, but maybe next time he’d be a little more adventurous. The contrast of the red looked so beautiful against her porcelain skin. He hoped they wouldn’t fade so easily this time, though he hadn’t been so hard.

He let go of the cane and placed both hands on her hips, admiring his work.

“Like I said, it’s a good look on you. And I do like that I’m the only one who’s allowed to give you this.”

“Is that all?”

Rhys bit down on his lip, but the words escaped him either way, “It feels as if I’m making you mine.”

Belle didn’t say anything.

Rhys let go of her hips. “I know you’re not,” he said. “But it’s... you look gorgeous, that’s all.”

Belle said, “Thank you,” and lowered her skirt.

She returned the cane to the basket and fetched the chair from behind the desk. Instead of helping him with his leg, though, she sat down and pulled his right foot to her lap.

“Does this bother you?” she asked, massaging it gently.

Rhys shook his head.

“I don’t mind what you said,” Belle told him, after a moment. “About how it feels that you’re making me-”

“I spoke without thinking.”

“I mean it, I don’t mind.” She paused. Her next words sounded more like a confession than anything else. “I feel like that, when we do... these things. I feel as if I belong to you.” She shook her head. “In a way, I guess you know me better than anyone else, so that’s inevitable.”

“Doesn’t anyone know you’re a submissive?”

“I’m not a submissive,” she said, almost dismissive of the term. Then, she offered him a crooked smile. “She says, after pretending to be a footrest and getting a thorough canning.”

“That was far from thorough, Miss French.”

Her crooked smile turned into laughter.

She continued to massage his foot for a while.

“I enjoy submission,” she said. “I dare say I enjoy it a lot more than I thought I would. Letting someone be in charge of me and... servicing you like this, it arouses me. There is a... surrender to it. It’s as if I could leave my entire world outside and just become _this_. Just become _yours_ for a little while. I like that.”

He nodded. “I like that, too.”

“But I’m curious about a lot of things, not just being somebody’s submissive. I’d like to...” she tried to think of a way to finish her sentence, but eventually gave up with a quiet, “I don’t know.”

Rhys waited.

Belle looked him in the eye and asked, “Did you ever have the feeling that... everybody else in the world was feasting, yet you were left with nothing but crumbs?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I want to join the banquet. I want to see what this is all about. But if I can only have one main dish, this is satisfying. It’s much better than crumbs.”

“Yes,” he said. “I see your point. I don’t think I can be of much help-”

“I wasn’t asking,” she hurriedly said. “Truly, I am happy with what we have.”

“Still... if you’d like to learn about shibari, I’ve been tied before. I could teach you.”

She smiled at him. “And can I use that blasted feather duster?”

“Absolutely not.”

Belle’s laughter was interrupted by a song. A wedding march, clearly coming from her purse. It wasn’t hard to guess who was calling. She got up, leaving his foot on the chair. Without her warm hands, it just felt empty.

She answered the phone. “Hi. No, I’m still here. No, everything is fine, he’s uhn...” she gave Rhys a look. “He’s just a little more prissy than I anticipated.”

Rhys mouthed, “I’ll get you for this.” Belle stuck out her tongue.

“No, he’s offering me a good deal. I’ll tell you when I get there. Gaston, I’ll tell you _when I get there_. No, he can accommodate me, but, uhn... he said I have to come back next week. He’ll have some samples for me.”

“On Sunday, Miss French,” he said, loud enough for the man on the other side of the line to hear him.

“Yes, Mr. Gold.” To her fiance, she said, “Because he wants my input. No, it’s fine, I can come directly from Regina’s place. Okay, we’ll talk when I get to your place. Okay. Bye.”

She turned the cellphone off and shoved it in her purse.

“You have to go,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Can you hand me my cane?”

“You don’t have to get up.”

“I’m feeling better. I can show you out.”

His limp was still bad, but this time he didn’t mind putting on a show for her benefit. She’d seen him at his worse, after all.

“I’ll have some ideas for you next Sunday,” he promised. “And after that... maybe I will get some samples.”

“And after that, won’t you need me back for a fitting?” she suggested.

“I will. A few fittings. I am prissy, after all.”

He opened the door and checked to see if the rain had stopped. It hadn’t, but it had turned into a cold drizzle, the wind mostly gone.

Belle stepped into the street and looked at him, standing underneath her umbrella. “I’ll see you next week, Mr. Gold.”

“I’ll see you next week, Miss French.”

With that promise, she turned around and walked away from the shop. Rhys watched her through the window until she disappeared.

An excuse to see each other, that was just what they needed. And there were still five weeks before Jefferson’s Halloween party. Five meetings with Miss French, at the very least.

Smiling to himself, he retrieved into the shop, ready to get back to work, when his eyes fell on the tea set she had knocked down when she walked in. At first, he thought she’d caused no damage - and even if she did, that tea set had been sitting there for years now, unwanted by anyone - but now that he looked closely, he could see one of the tea cups had been chipped. Nothing too serious. The chip was right there on the floor, he could easily fix it.

Or not.

He could just bring it to his office, just like the chair.

Belle’s chair.

Belle’s cup.

God, pretty soon, she was going to take over the entire shop. And the worst part, was that he was going to be happy about it.

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anybody would like to suggest a Halloween costume for Belle and Gold (who might, or might not, be attending this year), I'm in need of ideas.


	13. Leashed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle really liked that red cape. Smut ensues. Femdom, collars, bondage. And then I ruin everything with angst.

She had always been told that being prim and being modest were good qualities on a woman, but right now Belle was throwing that particular piece of advice out of the window because she looked absolutely stunning. The red cape seemed to float around her, from her head to her heels, which were one of the tallest pairs she had and came in a matching shade of blood.

Though the cape had initially been sewed for someone much taller than she was, Mr. Gold had made the necessary adjustments and now it was fit to perfection.

“I couldn't resist it,” he'd said, standing close to her ear as he talked. “It'd look so much better on you than on anyone else.”

Now, Belle looked at herself on her bedroom mirror, giving in to vanity. He was right. No one else could wear this but her. She looked beautiful. The silver clasps, shaped like the head of a wolf, closed over her breasts, bringing them together to a generous cleavage. Though her nipples were still hiding, the costume left very little to the imagination, as the cape opened softly around her, showing her flat belly and the panties she'd chosen for the occasion – white, laced into flowery patterns that were almost see-through. Against the red of the cape, and the pink of her cheeks from the most recent canning, they popped to the eye. Gaston would have said she was asking for trouble, if Belle had asked his opinion. She didn't.

Belle picked up her basket of goods and pulled the hood over her head, the curls she had spent hours shaping in front of the mirror falling gracefully over her cleavage.

Her heart was pounding by the time she arrived at Jefferson's, a large, tasteful residence that was a little secluded, which was just what she had hoped for. The moment the double doors opened, all eyes were on her, and a stunned silence ran through the crowd of sexy nurses, bunnies, witches, and a myriad of leather costumes. Some people were showing even more skin than she was, but tonight, no one was as beautiful as her and Belle took pride in that as she made her way through the crowd, hunting for the person she came here to see.

Unsurprisingly, she found him talking to Jefferson, apart from everyone else. Even more unsurprisingly, he'd refused to wear a costume, not that she'd complain. Mr. Gold looked so imposing in a three piece suit, so in command of the situation. It was probably what had attracted her to him in the first place. Tonight, though, she was hoping to strip it off him, quite literally.

He didn't notice her there until she was standing next to him and it was too late to find an excuse and run away.

“Won't you compliment my costume?” she said, as a greeting.

Jefferson chuckled.

Gold choked on his words for a moment, eyes taking in her figure from head to toe, from her hair to the cleavage, to the basket, to the white panties, to her legs. He had a thing for her legs. Belle noticed that early on when she started working for him.

“Whoever made that costume is a genius,” he said, making Belle smirk.

“Indeed,” she told him, angling herself even closer. “I should find a way to thank him properly.”

That got his attention, one of his eyebrows shooting up.

Belle walked away, her entire body concealed by the long cape, swaying with every step she took.

He followed her, just as she thought he would, keeping his distance as he traced her steps through the crowd. Belle didn't know anyone, and nobody stopped her on her way out of the house. She wanted privacy for what she had in mind, and the woods behind Jefferson's house would suit her just fine.

Her heels didn't falter as she walked on the freshly cut grass, and the tapping of his cane went mute behind her, though she knew he was still there. He had to have a clue as to what she wanted. Despite being occasionally awkward around her, not knowing how to react to her forwardness, Gold wasn't naive. Still, his breath got caught in his throat as she unfastened the wolf clasps over her breasts and allowed the cape to fall to the ground as soon as she was shielded by the trees. Belle continued on, step after step, the dim garden lights displaying the stripes the canning had left on her cheeks.

Belle came to a halt and turned around. Gold had followed her into the dark, but he could still see her breasts in the moonlight. He'd never seen her bare chest, though Belle was sure he'd imagined it countless times before, and judging by the look on his face, he wasn't disappointed.

She offered him her basket. “I have something for you.”

Gold looked at the basket, but his eyes didn't linger there. They couldn't, not when she was standing almost naked in front of him.

“I knew you wouldn't wear a costume, so I got you something to match my own.”

He seemed to wonder what kind of game she was playing now. He was always so mistrusting. But he took the basket from her hand and looked inside. His eyes grew in size for the fraction of a second, surprised. Whatever he thought would be inside that basket, it hadn't been it.

His silence dragged on enough for Belle to worry she had crossed all boundaries with her little game, but then he said, “Yes,” without taking his eyes from the contents of the basket. Belle loved the sound of that word. Mr. Gold had always seemed to her like the kind of man who'd react to everything that was new and intimidating with an outraged, “No!” But that had never been the case with her. He always treated her with a welcoming curiosity, and she liked to pretend she was the only one who made him this bold.

He didn't flinch when she took a hold of his tie and fiddled her way up to the knot.

“This is getting in the way,” she whispered.

He didn't answer, but she could hear the sound of his breath, and feel the movement of his chest against her hands. She pressed her body on his as she worked on the knot of his tie, and he snaked a hand around the curve of her waist to her back, and then down to her left cheek, to tease the sensitive stripes on her skin. Belle winced, but didn't say anything. She'd soon get him back for it.

She threw his tie on the grass and placed both hands around his neck, making him shiver. Her thumbs stroked his throat, waiting to see if he'd turn and run. He didn't. When she took the collar out of the basket, he didn't look away from her eyes, fascinated with her. At that moment, Belle felt like he'd let her do anything she wanted to him, and that was such a powerful realization. She wanted to thank him just as much as she wanted to push him against a tree and kiss him, all the rules they had set for their arrangement damned to hell.

She'd chosen that collar for him. It was made with padded leather, a dark shade of blue. He'd told her once that was his favorite color and she kept that piece of information tucked in the back of her mind, knowing it'd come in handy one day. He lifted his chin without hesitation and Belle fastened it around his neck with a firm embrace. The feeling of the leather against his skin seemed to make him content.

“What is Red Riding Hood without a wolf?” she taunted.

“A rather domesticated one,” he retorted, not displeased.

The leash came after, a long chain of silver rings, a handle in matching leather. Belle hooked it to the collar and pulled him towards her, leading him into the woods, eyes on his, luring him in. He didn't resist her.

Belle wanted to ask his name. She'd always wondered what it would taste like on her tongue.

“Come here, pet,” she told him, coming to a halt just under the shade of a tree, but pulling the leash until he was close enough to feel her breath, saying, “Give me a kiss.”

His lips parted and she heard him gasp right before they touched hers. He kissed her deeply, famished for her after being denied something so simple, and yet so intimate, for so long. Belle held on to the leash as his arms wrapped around her body, his many layers of fabric against her naked skin.

“You're overdressed,” she sighed, parting their kiss. He let out a little whine and tried to follow her lips before she had the chance to escape.

“Kiss me again,” he pleaded, sweetly. She'd never heard his voice as subdued before, but she liked the sound of it.

“You're such an impatient pet. Take that off for me.” She took a step back, holding him by the leash at arms' length. “I want to see you.”

In the dark, she watched as he moved. The jacket was shrugged off his shoulders quickly, but after that he worked the buttons on his vest and shirt one by one, entranced by the adoring look on her eyes.

“What a handsome pet you are,” she rasped, as he stood in front of her, naked from the waist up. She captured a nipple with her middle and index finger. “I have something else for you, pet. I picked it especially just for-”

“I love you, babe.”

Belle lifted her head up, coming out of her haze just long enough to see Gaston looking at her from between her thighs.

“Don't stop,” she said, breathless. “I'm getting close.”

“I love you,” he repeated, pecking kisses on the inside of her right thigh. “I love you so much.”

His words pierced through the fog of her fantasy, and Belle barely registered that the only real sentiment she could hear in his voice was possessiveness, before saying exactly what he wanted to hear (“Yes, I love you, don't stop.”) and shoving his head down on her pussy again, where he continued to lick her clitoris, on a steady and effective pace. Gaston might not be very creative, but he was reliable, in every way.

Where was she?

The trees. The woods behind Jefferson's house, something she conveniently placed in the middle of Boston. Just like she conveniently placed her stripper heels on the grass and managed to walk as gracefully as a model on a catwalk.

She'd caught his nipple between her fingers. What kind of sound would he make? What did his chest even look like? Belle had wondered before, but never reached a conclusion. Just like she didn't know what submission sounded like in his voice.

Just like she didn't know his name.

“Come here, pet,” she told him, inside her mind, closing her fingers around his nipple and making him purr. She took the rope from inside the basket. White. It would be easier to see in the dark, or so she thought. “I've been practicing on my own, pet. I want to show you what I've learned.”

Belle pressed him gently against a tree. Gold complied as she started working the rope around his wrists and elbows. She'd watched several videos on YouTube, and though she lacked the hands-on practice, in her mind she was as dexterous with it as Gold was when the roles had been inverted. He was as impressed as he was aroused when she was done tying his arms around the tree.

“You _have_ been practicing,” Gold told her, as she brushed her lips over it, but didn't kiss him again.

“I had to repay you for all the shibari sessions we had. And also-”

She trickled her fingers like a spider up his torso, making him squirm.

“Hey- Hey!” he protested, the ticklish sensation making him alert. “Is this repay, or payback?”

Belle smiled and gave him a pack on the lips. “A bit of both. Just be glad I didn't bring the feather duster.”

Belle kissed his cheek, then his jaw line, just above the collar. Gold hummed with pleasure, hooking one leg on hers to keep her from stepping away.

“I want to do so many things to you,” she whispered, becoming breathless.

“Tell me,” he asked, her lips on his shoulder now and working her way down.

Belle clenched her muscles, feeling herself getting closer.

“I want to bite you,” she told him. “Every inch of you. I want to leave bite marks all over your body. And then I want to show you around.” He sighed in her mind when her teeth sank into his right shoulder, pressing down hard until she dragged a shivering sound out of his throat. “Yes, I want to bring you back inside, in your collar and leash, and parade you in front of everybody. Then everyone will know you're mine now.”

“Yes. Keep talking.”

“I want to return every stroke of that paddle, pet. I think you're going to enjoy that as much I as did.” She knelt down on the ground and kissed his bellybutton. “I have nipple clamps, too. I always thought I'd wear them for you first, but maybe we should see how good they look on you.”

“God, Belle,” he whispered, watching her closely as she started to undo his belt. “Please, don't stop.”

“But the thing I want to do the most, pet,” she said, unzipping his fly as slowly as Gaston's tongue, dragging itself over her entrance and bringing her to the edge. “I want to suck your cock. I've been wanting to for so long.”

She reached into his pants, imagining just how hard and how warm he'd be. She opened her mouth, sticking out her tongue, and the sight made him shiver. Belle couldn't wait to take him in and suck on it eagerly, to break all his composure and turn him into a pleading mess. She'd love to hear his voice asking her permission to orgasm.

Belle grasped the sheets on the bed and threw her head back, the thought of him, helpless and undone on the tip of tongue, breaking all her resistance and pushing her over the edge.

“Does that feel good, babe?” Gaston asked, already on top of her limp body, nuzzling her cheek with both affection and pride. His voice sounded repented and Belle almost believed he was sorry, even though he hadn't bother to use that word.

“Yes, that felt so good,” she answered, dizzy and happy as her fantasy dissipated before her eyes.

The tip of his cock searched for her entrance. “Am I forgiven?”

Belle said “Yes,” mostly because she couldn't remember why they had been fighting to begin with, and spread her legs further to make it easier for him.

“Oh babe, you're so good to me,” he said, panting on top of her.

Belle hummed in agreement and closed her eyes again, looking for the exact moment when her fantasy shattered. Inside her mind, Mr. Gold watched her with adoration in his eyes. Real adoration, not a mimic of it, spilled in empty words and deep thrusts, as her fiance dragged his tongue up her neck, breathlessly saying, “Yes, babe, you're so good. God, I love you so much. Yes... yes...”

Real adoration... she thought she caught a glimpse of it on his face a couple of times. It felt good to pretend he might look at her like that every day.

 

 


	14. Poor Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jefferson forces Rhys to reconsider his life choices.

“What's with the chair and the chipped cup?” Jefferson asked, and Rhys stiffened in his own chair but used the pins he was currently holding in his mouth as an excuse not to speak and only respond with a shrug. “You keep making this office more and more cramped, Rumple. Pretty soon, there won't be a place for you. Ever thought of just closing the whole thing and making an atelier?”

“I like my pawnshop,” Rhys muttered, through the pins in his mouth.

“Yes, but given how much time you spend at the _back_ of it-”

“Did you want anything?” he asked, cutting the long speech. Jefferson was the kind of person who could go on forever if he wasn't stopped.

Without so much as giving Rhys an apologetic look, Jefferson took three new orders from his pocket.

“You have to be kidding me.”

“I told them you were swamped, but they insisted,” he said. “They're big fans of your work.”

“Then they should have put their orders in two months ago, just like everyone else,” Rhys said, not feeling particularly friendly that morning. Since Sunday, the pain in his ankle had dulled but refused to fade completely, so he still had to keep his foot up. The position made something as simple as draping a skirt more complicated than it should be and the result was wretched. Not to mention that the stool was not as entertaining as Belle.

“Yes, I told them that too,” Jefferson continued, standing by his mannequin but unable to get his attention. “And if you can't fit them in your schedule, that's okay, but I know you're the best at working miracles-”

“Flattery won't make me any less unavailable, Jefferson.”

Jefferson, who was used to Rhys' bad moods, cut to the point, “How much do you need to _become_ available?”

Rhys told him and Jefferson laughed.

“You're selling yourself short. Mal is offering twice as much.”

Rhys looked at him quickly, greed tugging at his interest, but not soothing his temper.

“Fine,” he said. “Give me two days and I'll see what I can do.”

“Can't you answer now? They're really-”

“I said a couple of days, Jefferson. If your clients don't like it, they should go elsewhere.”

Jefferson looked at him for a moment, watching him pin fabric to the mannequin.

“You're Mr. Cranky Pants today. Is it the ankle?”

“What?”

“Neal told me it was bothering you. Why you refuse to see Victor is beyond me, Rumple. I've told you that he can do wonders-”

“I'm Mr. Cranky Pants, as you so skillfully put it,” Rhys interrupted, “because you keep shoving clients down my throat and expecting me to accommodate their crazy demands into my schedule. I already have enough to do as it is. And to top it all off, this skirt looks like _shit_!” He pulled the fabric off the mannequin, making pins fly and Jefferson take a step back. “Why can't your friends just go naked to your annual orgy?”

“It's not an orgy, Rumple, it's more like a munch,” Jefferson said, unfazed by the outburst.

“Right, just don't expect me to be cheerful about the extra work.”

“Never, Rumple,” Jefferson said. “Cheerfulness would only make me suspicious. I just thought that maybe this had less to do with work and more to do with a certain someone leaving for New York in less than a year.”

Rhys grumbled something unintelligible and snapped the three slips of paper from Jefferson's hand.

“He mentioned to me that you weren't very happy about it,” Jefferson continued. “He stopped by the shop to say hi and buy one of your flower dildos.”

Rhys' head snapped up. “ _Goddammit Jefferson! I don't need to know what my son's doing in your bloody_ -”

“It was a gag gift,” Jefferson explained, though Rhys' horrified reaction had clearly amused him. “I should have led with that.”

“Yes, you bloody should have.”

“Anyway, he mentioned that you were not very happy about it.”

“I'm not.”

“Nor supportive.”

“No.”

“So, as the good godfather that I am-”

“You're not.”

“I told him that you boys should talk like two mature grown-ups.”

“He didn't listen to you. In fact, he's going out of his way to avoid me.”

Jefferson shook his head. “Stubborn boy. Wonder who he might have taken after.”

Rhys didn't seem to take the comment well, but decided not to argue and read through the orders.

“I don't envy you, Rumple.”

“Is that so?” Rhys said, absentmindedly.

“Grace just told me she wants to apply to CalTech. I mean, it'll still take her a couple of years, but she's my little girl, you know? I'll probably cry for a week when the time comes. And then go on to date someone half my age. Wouldn't that be the perfect example of a midlife crisis? At least you got to keep Neal in the house while he-”

“This isn't the single fathers' support group, Jefferson.”

The smile on the other man's lips died. “I was only making conversation-”

“You don't pay me to make conversation, you pay me to do this-” He pointed at the fabric that had almost become a skirt moments before. “And since I now have to accommodate three more orders, you better-”

“I'm leaving. Sorry for trying to be friendly.”

Underneath the rustle of the curtain as Jefferson walked away, Rhys could've swore that he'd heard the word “asshole” being muttered. Not that Rhys disagreed. He was being an asshole. More than usual. But something had gotten under his skin.

_I'll date someone half my age, wouldn't that be the perfect example of a midlife crisis?_

Yes. Yes, it would be. What better way to deal with a child leaving the nest and the hole they left behind than than finding a younger lover? Then again, blaming his poor decisions on empty nest syndrome might not be entirely correct. Belle was far from being the only complication he'd ever been attracted to.

The longest relationships he'd ever had included a marriage of fourteen years to an emotionally abusive and manipulative woman, and an extramarital affair of two years with Regina's mother that only resulted in heartbreak and a bruised ego. Empty nesting had had nothing to do with that. Complicated women just seemed to be his type. Was it really that surprising that he'd finally gone for the cliche? If anything, it'd taken too long.

Had he been clever, or normal for that matter, he'd have settled with Mary Darling when he had the chance. A widowed mother of three with a steady job and love for sewing, Mary was as sweet as they come, the complete opposite of the woman he'd shared fourteen years of his life with. Baelfire liked her and, for the three months they'd been together, he acted as a big brother to her daughter and two sons. They could have become a big, happy family, the kind he once thought he'd have with Milah, but Mary, just like every other uncomplicated woman he'd met since the divorce, didn't last. She wasn't ready just yet.

And the next one wasn't either.

And the one after that bored him.

And the one after _that_ claimed his job, of all things, was a deal-breaker.

Even Mal, who only ever called him for sex or when she had nothing better to do, was now committed in a relationship, according to Jefferson.

As for himself, eight years of solitude and bad dates had resulted in Belle, a woman half his age, attached to a fiance, and with a burning curiosity for BDSM that Rhys had offered to satisfy – because _he_ might have a taste for domination but, apparently, he loved to be used above all else.

The sudden realization that his relationships were doomed to fail (and had fucking Jefferson to thank for that too!) didn't help ease his mind as the week progressed. The thought of Belle coming back to him on Sunday sometimes made him forget just how angry he was for a moment or two, before he realized that Belle, like everyone else, wouldn't last.

By the time she walked into the shop, that afternoon, Rhys felt the strong urge to give her a hug, which was perhaps the least sexual thought he'd had about her since they'd met. Holding her to his body was such a comforting thought that he might have given up any other idea she was about to suggest if only she allowed him as much.

It must have shown on his face because the first words out of her mouth were, “Are you feeling alright, Mr. Gold?”

“Wonderful,” he answered, a little more aggressive than planned.

“You look a little-”

“Yes?”

Belle hesitated, unsure if pushing the subject any further was wise, but then said, “Vexed.”

“A prerogative of parenthood,” he said. It might not be the whole truth, but it was a significant part of it. Baelfire was getting to his last nerve. All week he'd avoided him and the difficult conversation they were bound to have, using work as an excuse not to come to dinner, and school as a reason to leave breakfast the moment his father showed up in the kitchen.

_Might as well get used to eating alone_ , he'd thought on Thursday, after another last-minute cancellation on family dinner.

“I should have known,” Belle said.

“How so?”

“You have the same look that my dad gets when we fight.”

“Perhaps it's the age.”

“Your age doesn't bother me,” she told him, without batting an eye.

_Yours does_ , he didn't say.  _Your fiance bothers me, too. The fact that he gets to keep you bothers me even more._

He turned around before she had the chance to read his face any longer and said, “It's not a fight if the other party keeps ignoring you.”

“It can be.”

Rhys locked the shop and looked at Belle to ask her to go to the back, but the truth slipped out of his lips before he could hold it back, “He wants to move to New York.”

Belle nodded as if the oversharing bothered her just as much as his age. “And you don't approve of it.”

“That my only son wants to move to a crime-ridden Yankee city? No, I don't.”

She laughed. “I've heard that before. When I told my dad I wanted to stay in America instead of going back to Australia with him he gave me a similar speech.”

“That's different. Bae is twenty-two.”

“I was eighteen.”

“Yes, but...” Rhys tried, his brain working to refute that argument. “You didn't go to New York.”

“I thought about it. I just couldn't afford it.”

A new surge of hate for New York City burned inside of him and Rhys curled his fingers around his cane. Bloody city. Bloody America. First, it wanted to take his only child away from him, and now he found out that it had also _almost_ taken Belle as well, before they had the chance to meet. Their arrangement might not be a perfect one – it was pathetic, that was the word he didn't want to use – but he didn't like the thought that, had her situation been different, Belle might never have walked into his shop and shared with those brief moments with him. He'd never have known her devotion, her trust, her twisted ideas.

“New York is overrated, Belle,” he told her, though he'd never been.

“I wouldn't know,” she said, with a hint of sorrow. “I've only been there a weekend. But then again, things always sound better before you try them.” She eyed the curtain. “We should...”

“Of course. Please.”

Rhys had done his best to clean up, but the mess was had grown out of proportion that last week, with fabric piling up everywhere. The sex apparatus that were usually on display had been replaced by a myriad of masks, cuffs, and assorted leather articles. Red Riding Hood's cape was gone, as was the gladiator outfit he'd been working on. In it's place, a plaid skit had finally been properly draped around the mannequin and Belle immediately identified it as, “Sexy schoolgirl.”

Rhys nodded. “It's rather obvious, isn't it?”

“Not that it isn't very well made,” she said, holding the hem of the skirt (not as short as she'd have expected), “but sexy schoolgirl is not exactly hard to find.”

“I'm supposed to sew it to something else.”

Belle looked at him, already curious.

“What, you won't tell me?” she asked, when he still didn't answer.

“ _Another_ chastity belt,” he said, delivering the words with the utmost boredom.

“Another?” she asked, baffled.

“You'd be surprised how many were ordered.”

“I probably would. I never really understood their appeal, to be honest.”

“Good,” he said. “Because if you tried _hers_ on, I'd have to make another, and chastity belts are a bitch to make.”

“Well, then you'll probably like what I have to say.” She stood in front of him. “I don't want to look sexy.”

He offered her a crooked smile. “You better try harder.”

“I meant for Halloween, but thank you. I know 'tis the season for high heels and, well, short skirts,” she gestured to the mannequin, “and Jefferson might never forgive me if I show up as Frankenstein's bride, but I've decided to go against the grain.”

“Jefferson won't care, as long as you're in costume. Mind if I ask why, though?”

“Someone has been nagging me to go in a different direction,” Belle said. “And lets leave it at that.”

Rhys nodded. “Fair enough. I think taking your measurements are a good place to begin.”

From a drawer, he fished a long measuring tape and then looked at Belle.

“You need me to take my clothes off,” she said, filling Rhys with relief. He had no idea how to approach the matter without making it sound like he was taking advantage of the situation.

“It would be best,” he said, trying to sound professional. “But if you don’t want to, I can make do.”

Belle said, “I don’t mind,” without looking him in the eye, and turned her back on him.

“If you don’t mind then...” he started.

Belle looked over her shoulder, her hands already reaching for the zipper on her skirt. “Yes?”

“Stand over here,” he said, indicating a spot next to the cupboard.

She eyed him with suspicion, and maybe a hint of curiosity. So far, his ideas hadn’t disappointed her, but this seemed like a random request. Still, she walked over and stood with her hands folded in front of her body.

“Do you want to watch me closely, Mr. Gold?” she teased.

“Actually,” he said, opening the cupboard door, “I want you to watch yourself.”

On the inside of the door, there was a mirror.

 


	15. Hard Limits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go too far. Some awkwardness, a lot of shibari description (I’m sorry!), more spanking, and a gag.

The Victorian replica that he'd elected as Belle's seat was imposing in its own way, even though Rhys still thought it was an ugly piece. Any chair would have been good enough, but he'd chosen that one because it was different. When he tied Belle to _that_ chair, it complemented the scene, somehow. It made every aspect of it memorable.

This mirror, on the other hand, was rather anti-climatic by comparison and he could only hope Belle wouldn't mind. It was a simple, narrow mirror. Its plain frame screamed of Walmart and it was so old that black spots permeated its edges. It had been glued to the inside of the cabinet door and it looked as mundane a mirror could, not nearly as special as Belle deserved it to be. Ideally, he'd have liked to see her framed by a large, full body mirror, like the one his mother used to have in her bedroom, an oval piece that could show a woman from her head to her toes. This was barely enough to show Belle's reflection from her knees up.

As soon as Belle took a look at the mirror, the little tease in the corners of her mouth faded. It happened so quickly that Rhys almost closed the cupboard and started apologizing. She hated it. This had been a terrible idea.

“Of course, if you’re not comfortable-” he started saying, but Belle was quicker.

“I love it,” she said, without looking away from her own reflection.

“Do you?”

“I do. Very much so.”

That was enough to quiet down his fears.

“In this case,” he said, voice suddenly dry at the perspective of what was to come next, “I’d like you to undress in front of it. And...”

He held on to her chin very gently, a tentative touch so that she could step away or slap his hand. She did neither.

“Keep that chin up, look into your eyes.”

“Yes,” she breathed, arousal palpable in her voice. “But can I ask you to do something?”

“I promise to leave the room and not peek, if you promise to do as I say.”

Belle looked at him as if the suggestion had been absurd. “I don't want you to leave the room. Quite the opposite. I'd like to you sit over there.” Her finger tapped the reflection of her chair, which stood right behind her. “You can bring it closer and watch me from there.”

“How close?” was all he could ask.

Belle turned around and pulled the chair to the middle of the room. From there, he'd get a good view of both her back and front.

“You’ll be able to see me, though,” he told her, as a warning.

That cracked a smirk on her serious face. “I'm the one losing my clothes, but you're the one getting shy.”

“I'm not getting shy,” he protested, though he knew that the sudden heat on his cheeks told a different story. Maybe she had a point. The thought of watching Belle undress in front of a mirror was appealing to him, but the thought of catching his own reflection was not. Every time she'd come to him, they hadn't really looked at each other once they started playing. That was mostly because she'd been either thrown over his lap or tied with her back to him, but Rhys knew that Belle's mind could be miles away, dreaming of another man. Milah used to do that; he was the man who fucked her, but she liked to pretend there was another man on top of her. Any other man. It wouldn't surprise him if Belle had been thinking of her fiance all three times she'd come to the shop.

But now she was asking to look at  _him._

“It just makes me feel safer to know that you're here with me,” she told him, marching back to the the mirror.

“If you insist.”

“I do. Please.”

Who could say no to such politeness? Rhys limped back to the chair and sat down, trying to find a good position. He crossed his legs, then uncrossed them, then straightened his back, flexed his fingers-

_Stop fidgeting_ , he thought, reprimanding himself.  _She's right, you're not the one undressing, you don't have to be nervous_ .

His eyes spotted his own reflection first, but he quickly avoided it and focused on Belle’s face. In a way, it was a good thing she'd taken sex off the table from the get go. If he felt this uncomfortable wearing clothes, he couldn't imagine how it would feel to be naked in front of her.

“Eyes,” he reminded her, with some severity.

Belle rolled her shoulders back, as if fighting goosebumps. Rhys wondered if his voice alone could have such an affect on her.

Obediently, she found her own eyes in the mirror. Her hands fumbled at her back for the zipper on her pink skirt, making a show at pulling it down slowly, and Rhys didn't know where to look anymore. The way her hands moved was sensual on itself, but the arousal on her face was too beautiful to look away, and she was so obedient looking at her own eyes just as he'd instructed her. He was on the edge of his seat.

Her skirt dropped to the floor and pooled around her heels, leaving her thighs exposed. The hem of her shirt still covered most of her ass though, and Rhys fought the urge to tell her to move faster. He needed to see her entire body, every bit that she'd kept hidden from him for so long. Yet, the way she undid each button slowly was about the most erotic thing he'd ever seen her do. She had to know the enormous power she had over him by doing that. Button, after button, after button, the dark blue of her shirt being replaced by her light skin bit by bit. If she kept that tortuous pace, she might get him to beg on his knees.

His cock twitched at the thought of it.

He wanted that.

He wanted to beg her. He wanted her to stand over him, pulling buttons open as he watched her.

The rustle of her shirt hitting the floor brought him back to reality and Rhys took her in with his eyes. There were no stripes on her ass from the caning he'd given her the week before, though he hadn't expected them to last long since he hadn't hit her with much strength. If given the chance, he'd be glad to give her new ones to take home. The line on her back ran deeper than he'd imagined, being interrupted by the clasp of her bra, which turned his attention to her breasts, small but cupped close together. Both her bra and panties were pain white, with two tiny little bows, one between her breasts, and one right bellow her bellybutton.

When he examined her face, she was looking at him, full of expectation.

“You truly are a beauty,” he said.

“I wasn't sure.”

“Pardon me?”

“You spaced out for a moment,” she said. “I thought you weren't pleased.”

“I'm pleased. I'm very- You're very-” Rhys cleared his throat. “I was only wondering what costume I should make for you. Nothing could ever be as beautiful as you deserve.”

That answer seemed to put her at ease, and Rhys felt himself relaxing. He'd been fidgeting on his seat because Belle could get a glimpse of himself in the mirror, but she'd been just as worried about her own appearance, though the reason for that was beyond his understanding.

“You're quite the charmer, Mr. Gold,” she said. “Will this be enough, or should I keep going?”

Rhys bit his own tongue before he could tell her to continue. “What do you think?” he asked instead.

Belle thought about it. “If this is enough for you, it’s enough for me.”

“Then, we should probably...”

He indicated the measuring tape he'd left on the desk. Belle nodded and waited for him to get up. Rhys reached for the tape first and fiddled with it, delaying the inevitable. It was pointless to wait, though. His erection was not going anywhere any time soon. He got off the chair and, for a split second, he caught her glimpsing at his crotch, but then her eyes were on her own image again.

“Turn around and lift your arms,” he told her.

Her little feet kicked the clothes out of the way and, when she turned, she raised her arms way above her head, crossing them at the wrists. A pair of lace cuffs would bind them together quite nicely. What a pity there was none of those at hand.

He fit the tape around her breasts, fingers brushing on the fabric of her bra.

“Make sure to watch the numbers.”

Rhys looked at her, finding the most innocent look on her face.

“You’re a funny one, aren’t you?”

“Just making sure we get something done. This is still a place of business.”

He wrapped the tape around her waist next, wondering if he could give her a pinch somewhere, just to keep her on her toes. Her nipples, preferably. Perhaps a pair of clamps would be enough to keep that pretty mouth shut for the rest of the measuring. Not that he didn't enjoy bantering with her.

“You’re distracted,” she said, as he took her hips.

“Nonsense, I’m very focused,” he replied, and that was true, though it took a lot of effort. If it was up to him, he'd just watch her for the rest of the afternoon.

“Are you now? Because you forgot to write my measurements down.”

“I don’t need to write them down. I have a good memory for numbers.”

“All numbers, or just mine?”

“What an arrogant client. Arms now.”

With a gentle touch, he lowered her arms until she stood with them spread open.

“It is impressive, though,” she said, and he was grateful that she kept talking. There was no way this situation wouldn't be awkward if she didn't behave so nonchalantly.

“What is?” he asked.

“That you can remember my measurements.”

“Yes, it’s my most useless talent. Of course, you're being so distracting that they might escape me.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

“You should do something about it.”

Rhys stopped just as he fit the measuring tape around her throat – in case she wanted to order a collar. She swallowed the taste of nothing in her mouth.

“What are you suggesting?”

Belle didn't answer. She had to know that the question was coming, but she continued to look at him as if expecting him to read her mind.

Rhys pulled the tape away. “Feels to me that you're trying to ask for something. I'd love to hear it. Last time, it was an interesting suggestion.”

She pressed her lips together, keeping the words a secret for just a second, before blurting out, “A ball gag.”

“A ball gag,” he repeated, the suggestion already sparking an image inside his head. A solid silicone gag, bright pink to match her lips, perfectly fitted inside her mouth. Before he could answer with a very enthusiastic “Yes!”, the image shattered with a sudden realization. “I don't have one.”

The expectation in her eyes disappeared. “Do you have any other-”

“I don't. Most people just want silicone these days. It's not an item that I get to make very often.”

“What a pity. Perhaps next time.”

He looked around. “I have rope.”

“Yes? What other knots could you show me?”

“No, I could make a gag out of rope.”

She stared at him. “Well... rope is rather versatile.”

“Isn't it just? Here.”

He looked inside the basket by the door. White rope, to match her lingerie.

“It should only take a minute.”

“Could I try it?”

Rhys stopped disentangling the rope. “You want to do it?”

“If it's not too hard,” Belle said. “And if you don't mind.”

“I don't mind. Though a bit gag might be easier to make.”

He was ready to explain to her what it meant, when she said, “A bit gag is fine.”

“Then, sit down.”

Belle went to her chair, looking to Rhys to be completely at ease with her own nudity, and crossed her legs, left over right. Even wearing nothing but lingerie she moved like a lady, her gestures delicate and fluid, a delight to watch. The rope, however, was something else entirely. She took it so carefully it might as well have been an untamed animal.

Rhys explained, “I'd usually do this with shorter rope, but we can use the rest of it.”

“I'm sure you won't run out of ideas.”

“Not with such an inspiration,” he told her, gesturing at her figure. “You'll need to find the middle of the rope.”

Belle ran her fingers through it, working out the kinks and trying to make it smooth and even.

“Like this?”

“Yes. Now, fold it into a loop. You're only going to use a small portion of it.”

“How long?”

“Not much. You should measure with your mouth, from one corner to the other.”

She held the rope up and fit it between her lips, then let out a little giggle. “I feel silly.”

“I felt silly too when I started doing this.”

“What, when you almost poked someone's eye out?”

Rhys smiled. “You'll never let that go, will you?”

“Never. I sense there's a much bigger story there. Is this good?”

“That should do. Now, you're going to wrap rope around the loop. Like, uhn, like this...” He took it from her hand to show her. “See, as tight and as uniformly as you can.”

“Yes, yes, I can do that,” she told him, eager to give it a try.

Belle worked very carefully, managing to keep each coil tight together. Even though the rope was longer than he'd have prefered, she managed its ends and loops with nothing but an occasional giggle.

“I'm making a mess,” she said a couple of times.

To which Rhys replied, “Nonsense, you're doing great.”

It was true. If she practiced regularly, she might get very good at it.

Jefferson, always with the hands-on approach to learning, had made him attend a few classes on bondage and shibari where he could observe large groups of people fooling around with the rope he made. It was a mess of knots and limbs where some people could make beautiful things, and some people just laughed themselves silly at their own incompetence. Belle seemed to be somewhere in the middle. She lacked in technique but there was something promising in the way her hands moved. Even though her entire body was exposed to him, he could not look away.

“Okay, finished!” she said, making a final knot at the end to hold everything together.

Rhys looked at the result and felt a sense of pride in her work. “Good job.”

“I bet yours would look better,” she said. “It's not very even.”

“No, no, it's a great first try.”

Belle jumped to her feet. “Well, in that case...” She held the gag up to his lips. “Yes, I do think it's look good on you, don't you agree?”

Rhys licked his lips to fight the urge to open up his mouth.

“But you forget,” he told her, “that you're the blabbermouth, therefor...”

He took the gag from her hands and Belle pouted as she walked back to the mirror. “You're no fun.”

“I'm sure I can change your mind about that.”

He asked her to tie her hair up and, once she did so, he stood close behind her to hold the rope in front of her, as if it were a precious necklace. Belle parted her lips without question and he brought the gag to her mouth, her pink lipstick smudging the white cotton. There was a loop at the right end of the gag where to pass the rope before tying it around her head, which she'd left so tight he feared he might have to use his teeth – putting his mouth so close to hers didn't seem to be a very good idea. He managed though, and soon there was a knot on the back of her head.

“Is this too tight?” he asked.

Belle tried to answer “No” but the sound that came out was unintelligible and only made them both laugh.

“You might want to nod or shake your head. Good?”

Nod.

“Very well. Arms on your back.” When she gave him a quizzical look, he explained, “I'll show you what we can do with the rest of the rope.”

He tied her wrists together. Given the elaborate knots he'd done before, this one was quite simple, something easy to undo quickly if need be. Belle would be underwhelmed if she could see it. However, it pulled on her gag slightly, forcing her to keep her chin up and her back straight, which pushed her breasts out.

Rhys looked at her in the mirror, his hands coming to her shoulders. Belle looked as pleased with the result as he was, standing on her high heels and well-shaped legs with a poise that Rhys could only describe as proud. Belle could see what he was seeing and the image pleased her beyond aesthetics. This was more than just nudity, this was what bravery looked like. In this moment, in front of him, she was herself, unafraid and unapologetic.

“There,” he said. “A beauty, with such skilled hands.”

Her chest inflated at his praise and she nudged a little closer to him, fingers fumbling until they took a hold of his jacket. If he had a fraction of her bravery, he might have moved closer, brushing himself on her, his hard cock aching through the fabric of his pants.

Instead, he took a step back, saying, “I should do your legs now.”

Belle's fingers curled back into fists so they wouldn't stray. She took a little step to the right to spread her legs.

Rhys knelt down on the floor in front of her.

“Are these the shoes you'll wear?” he asked, trying to distract himself.

Silence.

Right.

Rhys raised his head, looking up at her from the floor, trying not to think that the white cotton of her panties was inches away, that tiny bow just bellow her bellybutton, almost like an indication of where his teeth should fit if he wished to pull them down. Her pussy lied just behind that thin barrier. From that vulnerable position he found himself in, Belle could easily step closer and bury his face in her.

From up above, beyond the hills of her breasts, she shook her head.

“Will your shoes be much lower?”

Belle raised an eyebrow. Rhys gaped at her. “You have _higher_ shoes?”

Shrug.

“I'll keep that in mind. I'll take the inside of your leg and thighs, in case you want pants.”

He’d never even seen her wearing pants, but Belle didn’t argue.

Being in this position was a complication, as he knelt so close to her legs, his fingers brushing on the skin the way he wished his lips could, all the way up. Every time their skin connected, he could feel a slight tremor go through her body and he only wished he could feel it at the tip of his tongue.

The real challenge was not self-control, though. It was the silence. In retrospect, he should have foreseen things would turn awkward the moment she asked for the gag. Rhys couldn't think of a single thing to say that wouldn't sound dull or inappropriate. He was about to say that she didn't need pants anyway when something dropped into his eye, making him go, “Ow!”

Behind her gag, Belle began to laugh. Rhys looked up. There was a trail of saliva dripping down her chin. He pinched her ass hard enough to make her whine and take a step back. There was a sound of protest, but it seemed more like an encouragement than a resistance.

“Look at the mess you've made, dearie,” he said, springing to his feet. He held her chin and wiped the saliva with his thumb. “You see why I'm always giving you a hard time for your posture?”

Belle moved her head back slowly, giving him a better view of her breasts. Before reason could tell him otherwise, his hand slipped down her neck to her chest. It heaved against his palm.

“What am I to do with you?” he rasped.

She nudged closer, her naked legs brushing on his pants, welcoming his ideas and standing so close he might have kissed her if that gag wasn't in place.

“Stand still,” he told her, and moved to stand behind her, the hand on her chest moving up to hold her neck. In the mirror, she looked ecstatic, suspended in a state of expectation. “I don't have a paddle,” he whispered in her ear.

Belle shivered and shook her head. When he watched her carefully she tried to mouth the words. They sounded messy and wet, but Rhys could make them out.

“Doesn't matter?”

Nod.

His right hand brushed over her cheeks. She pushed back into his soft touch.

“I will give you fifteen for your posture,” he said. “And another fifteen for not telling me what you wanted when you came in.”

Nod. She understood. She wanted it.

The fingers that were wrapped around her throat squeezed very lightly, but didn't dare to do more than hold her in place.

“I enjoy our meetings immensely, my dear, but this is all for you. I want to hear what you want. I want...”

Rhys trailed off.

_I want to serve you and make you happy_ .

Belle nodded again, a little more frantic. Greedy.

“Tug at my jacket if you need me to stop.”

She curled her fingers around his clothes in a soft clasp.

His hand came down on her right cheek so forcefully she yelped behind her gag and almost lost her balance, the hand on her neck being the only thing that kept her upright. He could feel a gulp down her throat, but she relaxed once the sting settled in. Since she didn't protest, he continued, keeping careful count of each stroke and paying close attention to her reaction.

“Look at yourself, my dear,” he told her, after the eleventh stroke of his hand, as she tried to close her eyes.

Belle whined and tensed every time she felt his hand, but as soon as he stopped to let her breathe, her body turned mellow and she pushed into his hand again.

The last one was met with a deep growl from her throat. Her eyes were dry, but her face was turning as red as her ass. After panting for a moment, Belle lifted her right leg from the floor, brushing it delicately on him.

“Do you want more?” he asked.

Belle nodded, her teeth biting down on the rope.

“This is a punishment, my dear,” he said. “You don't get to decide how much you get.”

She made a humming sound and rested her entire body on him. He could tell that she was trying to tempt him into breaking his resolution.

Just another one.

Just another ten.

He caressed the mark that his fingers had left behind. There would be no bruise for her to hide from Gaston once she got home. He wasn't strong enough. It was tempting to just do as she was pleading and keep hitting her until there was a memory for her to take once she left.

Because she would leave. Her abandonment was part of their arrangement, whether he liked it or not.

Without thinking, Rhys passed an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, fitting his face on the crook of her neck. It fit so perfectly it occurred to him that this might be his favorite part of her body because it felt made for him.

Belle hummed, her throat vibrating against his hand. Her face was half-turned to him when he looked up, her eyes closed. He nuzzled her cheek, pressing his lips together not to fall into temptation. But then he looked in the mirror and realized she had parted her legs further apart.

Suddenly, her eyes were open and staring at his reflection, and Rhys didn't know if that was a plead or a challenge that he saw in them, but the arm he'd wrapped around her waist obeyed before reason could come to either of them.

It started tentative, as everything between them so far, a single finger sliding down her navel until the smooth of her skin became the cotton of her panties. She went completely still, the hand around his jacket grasping it strongly as he reached her crotch and felt the wetness pooling in the fabric.

“Did you enjoy it this much, my dear?” he rasped.

A slow nod rubbed her cheek against his.

He brought his finger back to the hem of her panties and then slipped inside. He closed his eyes, inhaling her scent as he explored her gently. Smooth folds, slick and welcoming to his touch. He didn't see her knees buckle in the mirror but he heard her breath getting caught in her throat. It was far from a discouraging sound but he still stopped, just to be sure.

Belle pushed her hips up.

Rhys felt himself smiling. “Do you want more?”

“Yes,” she told him, the end of the word a hissing sound.

Rhys found her entry and teased it, but didn't dare enter her just yet. He moved up, looking for her clitoris. A gentle stroke of it was enough to extract a moan from her, a low and husky sound he knew he could never get enough of it.

“Should I go on?” he asked.

This time, she didn't answer.

“Rub yourself on me,” he suggested. “I'll be very still. Do it as much as you want.”

Belle gave it a try, moving her hips up and down as she pushed against his hand. Rhys put on just a little pressure, but kept his promise. He was very still. If she wanted to come, she'd have to work for it herself – which she didn't seem to mind.

The grip around her neck tightened as he fought the urge to untie her arms. If her hands were free, perhaps she'd touch him back and he'd come undone in seconds. His cock felt caged and neglected and if she grabbed him through his pants, that would be enough. However, he feared that a sudden movement would call her back to reality and end things before she reached an orgasm and, right now, he'd do anything to hear what an orgasm sounded like in her voice.

Belle worked a steady pace, rubbing on his hand unabashedly, eyes closed in concentration as she chased her own climax, moaning behind her wet gag as drool slid down her chin. Rhys slipped his finger to the side, just to see if she'd follow. She did. Desperately.

“Come for me,” he whispered in her ear, circling her clit just as she picked up some pace. “Please, Belle, come for me. I want to see you.”

And then she stopped.

It was so abrupt that he knew he had to pull away.

“What is it?” he asked, his fingers soaked in her wetness, hovering just bellow her bellybutton, eager to go back inside.

Her answer was tugging at his jacket.

For a moment, Rhys didn't know what to do. Should he leave the room and give her space? Should he untie her and talk things through? Or just give her a moment to recover? Come to think of it, they should've worked this out before that gag was even made.

He decided to untie her wrists and see where she went from there.

Belle pulled the gag off her mouth so quickly he didn't have the chance to undo the knot on the back of her head. She stumbled away from him and leaned on his desk, breathless.

“I'll step out, let you get dressed,” he said, reading the signs all too well and leaving the room.

He hid away in the bathroom, turning on the water to give her more privacy. Before he knew what he was doing, he was washing his fingers thoroughly, erasing her taste and her scent from them. Regret didn't hit him until he dried his hands, leaving no trace of her behind. As sad as it might sound, he wished he had at least that to hold on to once she left.

When he came back, Belle had put on her skirt and shirt and was pushing her chair back into its corner. The cabinet door had been closed, concealing the mirror.

“You look ready to go.”

“Yes.”

“We haven't discussed your costume yet.”

She didn't answer. Didn't even look at him. It was hard to believe that her melancholy face had been a mask of complete surrender not ten minutes before.

“I crossed a line,” he said.

“You didn't do anything,” Belle told him. “I'm the one who drew the line to begin with and I didn't stop you.”

Her arms were crossed in front of her body, putting on a wall around herself.

Rhys said, “I should have stopped-”

“You offered to stop _several_ times. I'm the one who kept going.”

“Belle-”

The sound of her name made her laugh, a joyless sound that he didn't like.

“This is ridiculous,” she said. “I don't even know your _name_. I've been coming here for over a year and this...”

She trailed off.

Rhys waited. Since it hadn't been a question, he said, “Do you want to know my name?”

“Yes.”

“Rhys.”

“Rhys,” she repeated, and what he wouldn't give to hear that in her sweet, breathless voice, just as she neared an orgasm. Belle shook her head. “Doesn't make me feel better.”

She began pacing the room.

“Do you want to sit down? Talk?” he offered.

Belle said, “You should let him go.”

“Let who go?”

“Your son.”

He frowned at the sudden change of topic, but said, “Okay.”

“To New York City. Like you were telling me before.”

“He's twenty two, Belle. I can't stop him.”

“I mean, you should give him your blessing. Be happy for him.”

“Why?”

She stopped walking, but still refused to look at him. “Because he's young, Rhys. He just wants to have an adventure. Didn't you, when you were his age?”

“Not particularly,” he said. “I was never very adventurous.”

Rhys was relieved to see a smile on her face. “Now, why don't I believe that?”

“It's true. All I wanted was a wife and a family. A happy home.”

“That's an adventure.”

“I suppose. Is that what I am to you?”

The question came out so fast Rhys didn't get the chance to think if asking it was a good idea at all. Belle, however, went very quiet.

“I am a terrible person, aren't I?” she finally said.

Rhys opened his mouth to say “No” but closed it quickly. The question wasn't directed at him.

“I keep saying this is just until the wedding and then I set these ridiculous boundaries as if they made a difference,” she mused.

“They're not ridiculous boundaries, Belle,” Rhys said.

“Yes, they are. And I can't even stick to them.”

Rhys took a step closer, but the moment his hand landed on her shoulder, she squirmed away from his touch.

“I need to go,” she announced, gathering her purse on her way to the door.

“Belle, please, lets talk about-”

“I need to go. I'll call you later.”

Rhys followed her, calling her name, but his cane was no match for her heels. She was gone before he could reach the front door.

 


	16. Leave Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys knows Belle can't stay with him, but knowing it doesn't make it any easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this chapter was supposed to be part of a much larger one that explained what happened to Rhys after Belle left the shop in chapter 15. However, that resulted in a 7K monster that got really dull and I couldn't find anything to cut. As a result, I had to reorder the story so that LETTING GO became chapter 17 and LEAVE ME took place right after Rhys and Belle's last encounter. Sorry about that and I hope it doesn't get too confusing.

Leaving was part of the deal. That had been established when she was still simply his tester, long before either of them complicated things. She'd come to his shop, engage in banter, take the toys, and go home to play by herself. That was the arrangement and neither of them had questioned it before, no matter how much Rhys might have wanted to. Belle left, she had never promised him otherwise.

By the time she'd made her first request, Rhys already knew it was supposed to be a one-time encounter, born out of impulsiveness and sexual frustration. He knew it wasn't going to last or become more than that, so he made the best of it. He'd lied her across his lap, brushed his fingers on her skin like he understood he wasn't supposed to touch her, tangled his hand in her hair, and spanked her backside with measured harshness, until her porcelain skin had turned warm and rosy. It made her happy, so he was happy.

Then, he'd let her go.

And it'd hurt like never before.

This was the fourth time, and it only hurt more.

Rhys didn't know why that was. He should've grown used to it by now, or at least become resigned with the fact that she was not his and this was only a way for her to achieve a thrill that she couldn't get anywhere else. It meant something, he would never claim otherwise. To some extent, he'd dare say she cared for him. She just didn't care for him _enough_.

Sex would have been less complicated than this. He could've fucked her once, maybe twice, as soft or as rough as she wanted him to be, so that the both of them could get the ache for each other completely out of their systems. Yes, if they had just done what normal people do when they're horny, then they could've gone their separate ways and never given that moment a second thought.

This thing they had, though... it was exciting and good and always left them wanting one more encounter. She made him hard, and dizzy, and desperate for touch, for her little hands, and her ballerina legs, and her beautiful mouth, and her, all of _her_. It was truly pathetic that all he got was nothing but a few pumps of his own fist as he replayed the memories of their time together. Yet, as insufficient as that was, he could not remember a more intense pleasure.

And then the climax wore off and his thoughts became an acute awareness of his situation. Once his mind wasn't clouded by want, there was no remembering Belle without remembering the door closing behind her, and the idiot she was going to marry and for whom she felt so very guilty.

There was no thinking of himself either without realizing that he was alone and covered in his own semen, the room dead-silent except for the sound of his own raggedy breathing. It was shameful how fast it took him, really, like a teenager who couldn't look at a pretty girl without losing control. In that sense, it was good that he'd never take her to bed, as he doubted he'd last much longer inside of her.

Today, though, Belle had already left an hour ago and he hadn't touched himself, which was somewhat ironic, given the sexual nature of their latest encounter. After the ropes and the paddle, he could barely wait to get his pants off; after stroking her pussy and holding her close and bringing her to the brink of orgasm, he'd lost any interest in his own pleasure and sank into his chair.

She was gone.

Not she was gone _again_. She was truly gone. Rhys had lost too many lovers not to know what it felt like to be left and this was it. The moment Belle walked out the front door, she'd already made the decision not to come back, even if she didn't know it yet. Rhys knew. He could hear the regret in her voice. This mess he'd gotten himself into was over and, in lieu of that, sex no longer mattered.

Belle had done the right thing by pulling back and he supposed it was a good thing that she was the one to finally come to her senses and call it quits. If the decision had lied on his shoulders, he might not have had the strength to do it, no matter that he'd promised her.

_If there are feelings involved, you'll have to pull back_ .

He'd said he'd do it. Stupid man. There had been feelings involved from the start and he'd been naive to let himself believe otherwise. If she didn't put an end to it, he'd have kept on giving her what she wanted, week after week, until her wedding – and if she came back after that, he wouldn't have said no either. Because touching Belle was a privilege. If she returned tomorrow, he would still be there. He might as well have waited for her on his knees, just as he'd envisioned himself earlier that afternoon. Belle could take everything he had, his time, his money, his very dignity, and he'd have been grateful for it.

“Hey! _Hey_! Earth to dad!”

Someone snapped his fingers in front of his face. Rhys startled so violently he almost flipped his chair back, but Bae grabbed it in time to prevent him from tumbling to the floor.

“Whoa, easy! Where did you go there?”

“What?” Rhys looked around, disoriented. His son was by his side, his unshaven face staring down at him, full of worry.

“Are you okay? Are you having a stroke or something?”

Bae tried to hold his face and look into his eyes. Rhys shoved his hand away.

“I'm fine, Baelfire, quit it!”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I'm damn sure, will you let me breathe?”

He spoke with more hostility than necessary, but Bae took a step back nonetheless. Rhys saw the bundle of rope sitting on his desk, still tied as a gag. Belle's gag.

Belle's cup.

Belle's chair.

Belle's sucker, who did everything she wanted because he needed to jerk off later.

He grabbed the rope and started undoing the knots. Bae was more than used to these items laying about, but it felt indecent to leave this particular rope out in the open with his son standing right there.

“This place is a fucking mess,” he muttered.

“What's new?” Bae said, trying to quip. Rhys didn't laugh. “You don't look so good-”

“I'm distracted. What do you want?”

There was a pause filled with tension. It did nothing to sooth his nerves.

“No need to bite my head off, you know?” Bae said, his tone careful, but undeniably upset. “I just came to say hi.”

Rhys scoffed. “You haven't spoken to me in two weeks and suddenly you want to say hi? That's precious.”

Bae stared at him, at a loss. He knew that his father could be an asshole when he wanted to, but was hardly ever on the receiving end of his anger.

“Wow, okay,” he said, already heading for the door. “Whatever caused this, talk to me when it's over and I can have my dad back.”

“No, Bae, wait...”

Rhys threw the rope on his desk and pushed his chair back to hurry after his son. He thought Bae would be long gone by the time he got to the front of the shop, but the boy had stopped just on the other side of the curtain, looking crossed.

“I'm sorry, I'm taking my problems out on you,” Rhys sighed.

“Yeah, no shit.”

“It's this client- nothing's working the way I- and then there's this-”

He stopped. He was making no sense.

“You sure you're not having a stroke?” Bae asked, and Rhys was relieved to hear a hint of humor in his voice.

“I'm not, I'm just having a shitty day. Or a shitty week.”

_Or a shitty affair with an engaged woman._

He must have looked as bad as he felt because Bae took pity on him and said, “That sucks,” in a more receptive voice.

“You know what,” Rhys said, with a sigh. “I need to get out of here. Five more minutes staring at costumes and gags and that _mess_ is going to drive me insane. Can we please go eat something and not talk about work?”

“As long as you're buying.”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “What's new?”

 

*

 

There was a coffee shop around the corner from the pawnshop, where the food kept getting more and more expensive and they kept coming up with new flavors of coffee, something neither Rhys nor Bae appreciated, but the quality was reliable and the environment was quiet enough to allow for conversation. Rhys had never liked crowds and noise and would much rather eat lunch at work, but on days like this, when he needed a break from being stuck within four-walls all day, this was a cozy place that didn't make him crave to get back inside as quickly as possible.

Being the more social of the two of them, Bae was in charge of interacting with their waitress, exchange pleasantries, and ordering drinks while his father sulked in his chair.

“Must have been some crappy couple of days,” Bae said, once the waitress was gone.

“Where have you been?” Rhys asked, changing the subject as far away from himself as he could. “I haven't seen you since Thursday.”

“Nowhere, just... spent some time with a friend.”

Rhys cocked an eyebrow, the casualness of the sentence making him suspicious. “New girlfriend?”

Bae shrugged. “Just Graham.”

“Who's Graham?”

“The new guy who works for Jefferson.”

“I didn't know he had a new guy.”

“He does. He's filling in for Ashley. He's a nice guy.”

“It's nice that you made a new friend.”

“Yes.” He stopped as if he needed to gather up courage for the next part. “Graham's going to Columbia Law next year.”

Rhys didn't say anything.

“So...” Bae started, trying to get a reaction out of him.

Rhys shrugged. “So?”

“I actually came to visit because I wanted to talk to you about that,” Bae said.

“About Jefferson's new guy going to Columbia-?”

“About New York City, and please don't play dumb. I understand that I haven't been... you know...”

When he struggled with his words, Rhys suggested, “Anywhere near me in two weeks and completely avoiding the subject?” making an effort not to sound snappy again, no matter how frustrated that subject made him.

Bae nodded slowly. “Okay... that's a fair assessment.”

The waitress came back with their drinks. Rhys took a large sip of his iced tea, suddenly wishing for something strong. Bae waited.

“It was probably for the best,” Rhys conceded. “I haven't been in the best of moods lately. Just ask Jefferson.”

“I have. He mentioned you've been acting like a real ogre.”

“An ogre?”

“His words, not mine. You should probably talk to him.”

“We have a meeting on Friday. Though now I'm concerned he might slam the door in my face.”

Bae hissed. “I suppose that's kinda my fault. With New York and springing the news on you like that. And then avoiding the subject.”

“Yes, that didn't help. But I can't pin that on you alone, no matter how tempting that sounds.”

“Did something happen?”

Rhys avoided the question by saying, “I don't like it when you don't talk to me, Baelfire. It's not the way we do things.”

“I _know_ , dad. But I'm here now and I'd like to talk about New York, if you're up to it.”

Rhys busied himself with his drink, thinking it through. Then, he said, “There's nothing to talk about. You can go.”

Bae pointed a finger at him. “You see, I knew you were going to say that and I was ready.” He took his phone out of his pocket. “I've got something that will change your mind, if only you give me five minutes to make my point-”

“Baelfire, you don't have to change my mind,” he interrupted. “I already told you, you can go.”

“I'm sorry?”

“You can go.”

Bae blinked at him, phone in hand. “I've made a power point presentation in case you-”

“You don't need a power point presentation. You can go.”

He blinked again. “You can go as in, don't come back ungrateful child of mine, or...”

“As in, you have my blessing.”

Shock turned into a look of deep mistrust. “What's your angle here, mister?”

“My angle is that you're twenty-two and you've clearly thought this through.”

The waitress arrived with their orders and placed them on the table, paying no attention to Baelfire's face of utter befuddlement. Rhys took a large bite of his hamburger. When Bae didn't move to touch his onion rings, he asked, “Do you want my fries?”

“ _Do you want my fries_?” his son repeated, baffled.

“Yes?”

“That's all you have to say about the subject?”

“What did you expect me to say?”

“That I could be murdered in that blasted Yankee city!”

Rhys stared at his son. “I'm sorry, do you _want me_ to say you can't go?”

“No!”

“Then why aren't you happy?”

“ _I am happy_!” he said, rather aggressively. People from the other tables turned to look at them. He tried to calm down. “I mean, I'm happy, I'm just... very confused as to how you went from 'I'm not okay with that' to 'take the Caddy and have fun'.”

“You're not taking the Caddy.”

“Seriously, did you have an epiphany just now, or what?”

“I didn't have an epiphany, Bae. It just occurred to me that... you're young. You should be making mistakes.”

“So you do think it's a mistake.”

“I don't know, Bae. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Who knows, this could be great, or this could suck. I just don't want you to...” He sighed. “To settle for something that doesn't make you happy. You should have an adventure.”

Now he looked genuinely concerned. “Seriously, what happened dad? Are you sick?”

Rhys didn't laugh. “I'm feeling sentimental, that's all.”

“Why?”

“Reasons. Silly reasons.”

Bae was still staring at him. He wasn't going to drop the subject any time soon, not unless he confessed to temporary insanity, or being diagnosed with a terminal disease.

“Someone I know is getting married.”

“Oh, god. It's mom, isn't it?”

“What? No!” Rhys said, surprised at that guess. In eight years, he must have talked to Milah five times, or less. She called and wrote occasionally to Bae, even visited him a couple of times, but Rhys had decided within the first year of divorce that there was too much heartbreak between the both of them and it'd be best, for their son's sake, if they kept their interactions to a minimum. Milah was fine with that. If she were to be married, Bae would've learned about that first, and Rhys daresay he wouldn't have cared much. “No, not your mother. One of my testers.”

“Then why does it matter?”

“I don't think she's happy,” he admitted. “Truly happy. It just occurred to me that... I don't want that person to be you. You should be happy. You should have a ridiculous adventure and never settle for less than you deserve. And if that fails, you'll try something else. Again and again, until you're happy. You shouldn't... I don't know, wake up at forty-five and realize you're too old to make mistakes anymore. That they are harder to get over.” Rhys shook his head. “But what do I know, I'm just an old-”

Suddenly, Bae had jumped out of his chair and was giving him a hug, almost knocking over their table in the process. It was so tight it knocked the air out of his lungs.

“I have no idea what's up with you,” Bae said, a little tearful. “But you just made me _incredibly_ happy.”

Rhys sighed. He was going to miss this when it was over, when Bae was being so  _incredibly happy_ in New York City. While he still could, he put his arms around his son and squeezed him tight – so tight that the people who were watching wouldn't have guessed that he was actually letting go.

 

 


	17. Letting Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: As she tries to make a decision regarding her relationship with Gaston and Rhys, Belle thinks back on how she got to where she is now.

As much as Belle liked to pretend that life stopped existing once she stepped into Mr. Gold's shop, it didn't. She might take as many breaks from it as she wanted, but it was still waiting for her to come back, and each time she did it looked more bleak and disappointing. This Friday afternoon, as every Friday afternoon before, she was elbows deep into a pile of dirty dishes, glad that Mrs. Tremaine was out of the house, instead of breathing down her neck. The old lady was extremely mistrustful and would watch her every move; the only conversations they had were very one-sided, usually about how lucky Belle was to be working for such a traditional household, with so much history to its name. Belle didn't care about “traditional” or “history”, all she cared about was that their house was old and huge and she was the only one who cleaned it twice a week.

Had Mrs. Tremaine stayed home, she'd probably be scorning Belle for not paying attention to what she was doing, and to mind the china she was washing. However, the old lady had left to meet her distasteful daughters for lunch, so Belle allowed her mind to wander in the quietness of her kitchen. Her head had been up in the clouds since Sunday, even Gaston had said so. The night before, he'd asked her, “Okay, off with it, what did I do now?” in that aggressive tone of his that implied that, whatever he'd done to upset her, Belle was probably overreacting to it. She'd have been mad at him, had she not been too busy telling herself that time had come to make a decision.

She'd crossed a line, one that she had imposed herself and that Mr. Gold had been respectful of. She couldn't even pin this on him. It had been her who'd crossed that barrier and gotten dangerously close to making a bad decision. It had been her to set this entire arrangement into motion to begin with. That had been her mistake, and hers alone. She was the one with the engagement ring and she should've known better.

It had to be the job. She'd found Mr. Gold to be attractive from the very start, but his job gave an edge to him. Had he been just a pawnbroker, she might have been attracted to him, but no more than she'd been to other men in the past. Knowing what he did, though, made him interesting. She was not supposed to be here, talking to this man about things she wouldn't disclose to her own fiance. He was forbidden, and that made her want to touch him so badly that even brushing his fingers when he handed her something felt like a transgression. Then, just as innocently, she'd began to flirt, just to see what he'd do. The nature of their relationship provided so much opportunity for inappropriate conversations that she'd taken full advantage of that, always pulling back before going too far.

Except when she didn't.

It had been so easy to ask him to spank her. They'd been talking about sex for months and, although they were always professional about it, she found it so easy to be honest and open with him about her preferences. She'd written detailed reports on how much pleasure his creations had given her and he'd welcomed her words like they were beautiful and natural. In a very short time, Belle had come to trust him. She knew that, if she ever felt so bold to try anything out, it'd be with Mr. Gold.

With Rhys.

She finally had his first name and it didn't make this any easier. If anything, not knowing it provided a extra barrier, an aura of professionalism to their encounters – which was utter bullshit, and they both knew it, but still made it easier to lie to herself.

Looking back, it was ridiculous that she had given herself a pat on the back for not having sex with him, as if lying across his lap and asking to be spanked was nothing but a kiss on the cheek. She might be inexperienced but she knew better. She'd been thinking about it and reading about it long enough to know that, to her, this was as good as foreplay. Being spanked and being tied and being gagged and being on her knees – this was purely sexual.

Belle sprinkled some of the cold water on her face and paced the kitchen, leaving the dishes behind. There was always this moment, when her thoughts turned to memories of the things she'd tried with Rhys and how fulfilled they'd made her feel. This was usually when she shut out her reason and focus on how happy she could be in his arms, or over his lap, or tied to his chair. Maybe, if Gaston had been more open to her needs, then she wouldn't be in this position in the first place.

It wasn't like she hadn't tried to get him involved. She'd become a tester for Rhys and Jefferson because she wanted to share this part of herself with him. Instead of listening, he'd reacted to her meek and insecure suggestion (“Would you like to tie me up?”) with so much disgust it had colored her with shame. He'd even hinted that she should see a therapist because this was not normal.

Gaston had very old-fashioned views when it came to sex and women. He thought that pleasure lied on his shoulders, or rather in between his legs. Men made the crude remarks, the adventurous requests, and women put up with it out of love. Because, apparently, women were emotional beings and not at all sexual. She was not supposed to think about bondage and things like that. She was the proverbial good girl.

Belle was glad she hadn't shared her curiosity when they'd first started dating. Back then, she was barely eighteen and very confused about some of the fantasies that found their way into her head. If she'd turned to Gaston for answers, he'd probably have made her feel terribly guilty about it. Shame had kept her quiet, though, and for the two years they were together, she satisfied her curiosity with books. Sex with him was enjoyable, but she became increasingly aware that it could be much better. There was so much out there that they could do together, new ways of seeking pleasure and intimacy.

Sometime after their second anniversary, as she was gathering courage to bring the subject up, Gaston confessed he'd cheated on her. Just once, and because he was drunk, he'd said, hoping that honesty would earn him some points and perhaps her forgiveness. It did not. It _might_ have, if Belle had been in a better mood and life wasn't disappointing her in every other area, but that was not the case. She couldn't seem to keep a job and the money she'd saved for college was gone, which meant her first semester in Library Science would likely be her last. She didn't need a cheating boyfriend on top of that.

Things didn't get better after that. She continued to work in menial jobs in hopes to go back to college some day. The following year, she started dating Will and, while he wasn't much more experimental than Gaston, he was a good boyfriend and an encouraging lover who couldn't seem to get enough of her. He loved that she was passionate and took initiative. He treated her like a goddess and worshiped the ground she walked on. Thinking back, Belle wished she had asked him to wear a collar for her. He'd have enjoyed that.

Will grew tired of Boston, though, and moved on to California. Belle would have joined him if he'd asked her to come along, but he didn't. Commitment had never been his strongest suit. After him, there hadn't been anyone important. Women who worked too much and had constant breakdowns over how hard it was to get an education in America were not much fun to be around, or so Belle was told by every other man she tried to date.

Then, as she was about to give up her dreams of becoming a librarian and return to Australia like her father wanted, Gaston reappeared in her life. Normally, she wouldn't have given him a second chance, but he knew what to say to her. He'd been there when her life was first falling apart and he'd picked up the pieces once. He was willing to do it again.

He was good company and he took her out to the movies and to dinner at the end of a difficult day. His friends became her friends and it was nice to find herself surrounded by people again – nevermind that she only really liked a couple of them. They were still incompatible in bed and he was still a caveman in some aspects, but he was reliable. When he proposed to her, she said yes more to see how she felt about it then because she wanted to become a wife. Upon close examination, she determined that she felt... fine. Not particularly excited about the wedding, but not terrible either. It was good to have someone in her life who didn't care if she complained about her day, someone who'd hold her and tell her that everything would be okay. He even offered to talk to his father and ask him to pay for her education, which she had politely declined, but appreciated nonetheless.

Sex was still bellow her expectations and he still frowned upon any kind of sex that deviated from the norm, but no relationship was ever perfect. And it wasn't like she'd ever trust Gaston enough with something so intimate again, given his first outburst. She could trust Rhys. They were each other's plaything, but they didn't know much about each other, and building a relationship on kinky sex wasn't a solid foundation. She had a life outside of his shop, and he'd given her no indication that he was interested in any other part of her.

_I don't expect you to leave your fiance. This isn't what this is about._

Those had been his words to her. Belle had no doubt that he wanted her and would've taken her to bed if she'd given him the option. She also had no doubt that the sex would've been amazing, if the tip of his fingers were any indication. Rhys might even care for her, but she didn't think that came from a place of affection, but rather from a sense of responsibility. She had offered herself to him and he had to look after her, make sure she wasn't hurt or pushed herself too far.

This was it. This was what Rhys offered her.

Always hoping for better was a naive thing to do because, sometimes, you just had to settle. Gold was exciting, what he offered her was intriguing, but that was as far as he was willing to go. Gaston was safe. Years from now, when sex was no longer possible, he'd still be there for her. They'd share something, even if it was just their memories of better days. With Gold, the moment the sex was gone, there was no telling what would remain. He might even get bored of her long before that and move on to another girl.

She couldn't risk a stable future for something new and exciting. She'd done it once already. She'd moved to the US because she thought it'd be so much better than Sydney, where she was plagued by memories of her mother and was under her father's overprotective watch. This country was supposed to be her chance to start over and make something of herself. Instead, her dreams of getting an education vanished and she was stuck working as a cleaner for people who only referred to her as “the maid”.

Marrying Gaston wasn't going to be easy. Moving in with him (which she had managed to avoid so far) would be complicated and require hard word, but all things considered, it was what was best for her. She had a relationship with a man who might not be very exciting, but who loved her and wanted to keep her safe and happy. She was twenty five, she knew better than to believe in fairy tales. No man would ever be perfect for her, she should be glad she'd found someone who was a good partner and who'd stay by her side.

With that in mind, she rested against the kitchen island and took her cellphone out of her pocket. She'd saved Rhys' number under _Library_. Gaston was no longer in the habit of browsing her phone, but one could never be too careful. Her call went straight to voicemail. She tried again.

This time, Rhys answered by saying, “This isn't a good time.”

Belle took in a deep breath. She was going to miss his accent the most. The way he whispered inside her ear...

If she didn't do it now, then she might not have the strength to do it later.

“We need to talk-” she tried.

“Yes, I understand that you're concerned about your costume, but I'm tangled up right now.”

Regina was probably in front of him. Or maybe it was Jefferson.

“Of course, Mr. Gold, I'm sorry to bother you, but it's a matter of urgency.”

“I insist-”

“I have to cancel my order.”

The way he went quiet told her that he could read between the lines.

“I am very sorry, I know that you're... you've been great. To work with. But I can't- I need to focus on the wedding now.”

“The wedding with Mr. Knight?”

Belle frowned. She had never mentioned Gaston's surname before.

“Yes,” she said, cautiously. “Yes, that is it. I don't believe I've mentioned his name before, though.”

“Oh, no, you didn't, Miss French,” he said, with great satisfaction, “but he is standing in front of me as we speak. Would you like to say hi?”

 

 


	18. Jefferson's Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys tries to mend things with Jefferson.

This was going to be painful. Humility always was. Rhys wasn't used to admitting he was wrong or saying he was sorry, even when he ought to, so this was bound to be unpracticed and awkward. The way he tended to handle a disagreement with Jefferson, on the rare occasions he'd managed to wear out Jefferson's endless patience, involved laying back for a few days or weeks until the other man had had the chance to calm down and go back to being his quirky, easy-going self. Once that was done, Rhys' would come up with something exquisite that could be sold for a lot of money and drop it on his desk, saying something non-apologetic, such as, “You might hate me, but you still need to see this.” If Pressed, he might add, “Fine! I'm sorry!” in a tone that made Jefferson roll his eyes but that forced things to go back to normal.

Today, simply being an ass until Jefferson got used to him again wasn't going to cut it. He'd have to make an effort to play nice and admit to being the one in the wrong, and then... then he could move on to the truly difficult part. Arming himself with treats that would get his foot in the door, Rhys arrived at the Mad Hatter that Friday just before lunch, when Jefferson was bound to be free. He walked in with his trusty basket hooked on the crook of his right arm, balancing it as he held on to the cane. On the other hand, he held three hangers, the clothes covered in plastic bags. The result was that every step from the car to the shop was a struggle, and he shouldn't have felt offended when one of the staffers came to his aid, but he still did.

“I got it!” he said, trying not to bark. By all accounts, that young man had to be the new guy, and not only did he not know how proud Rhys Gold could be, he was friends with Bae. Making Baelfire's friends cry was something he'd rather avoid, though it didn't always work.

“It's okay, sir, I don't mind,” said the new guy. Rhys couldn't remember his name. He was a good-looking kid, with a nice smile and mild manners. Nothing like a methamphetamine dealer, so that was good. In fact, if Bae had to go to blasted New York City with someone, might as well be with someone who looked as responsible as this one.

Rhys pulled the hangers and the basket out of his reach. “I said I got it. Where's Jefferson?”

“Did you come to drop these off?”

“No, I like carrying unnecessary weight.”

The kid stared at him.

“Yes, I came to drop these off.”

“He warned me about you.”

“He's _warned_ you?”

“I mean, he told me you were coming. You can hand them over.”

“So he's not in?”

The new guy hesitated. “...No?”

“Goodness sake.”

Despite being close to the counter at this point, Rhys shoved the basket and hangers at the new guy to keep him busy, instructing him not to drop anything, and then marched straight to Jefferson's office door. It was locked.

“C'mon, Jefferson! I know you're in there!” he all but shouted, banging on the door.

Clients turned around to see what the fuss was all about and the new kid came running to him, hands full and a look of panic on his face. “Maybe you should wait while I call Mister-”

Rhys ignored him. “Jefferson, I'm about to be an asshole to the new guy and he's friends with my son. Don't make me do it.”

“Oh, shit,” the new kid said, taken aback. “You're Rumpelstiltskin.”

Rhys looked at him.

“I mean, you're Neal's dad. Hi-”

“Who did you think I was?”

“I told Graham to expect 'some asshole with bags',” came Jefferson's voice from the other side of the voice.

“Well, I hope you know better than to call me that,” Rhys told Graham, his face serious enough to turn the kid pale.

“Of course, Mister...”

“You can call me Mr. Gold, like everybody else.”

“Of course, Mr. Gold. Mr. Hats was just-”

The door opened. “For the last time, stop calling me Mr. Hats.” To Rhys, he said, “And _you,_ stop harassing the staff.”

“I'm not harassing the staff. I'm harassing you.”

“I'm busy.”

“No, you're not. When you're busy, you work from home. You hate your office.”

“Right now, I hate you more than I hate my office.”

It occurred to Rhys that he liked Jefferson much better on days like this, when he was just as prickly as him, instead of his usual ray of sex-positive sunshine disposition.

“I am here to apologize,” Rhys said, “so get off your high horse.”

Jefferson blinked at him, utterly confused but definitely paying attention. Then, he leaned on the door frame, still blocking his way.

“That's unusual. You normally just avoid me until you've made me enough money to earn my forgiveness.”

“Do you want to be sassy or do you want to see your costume?”

He perked up in a heartbeat. “Oh! I want to see my costume, please!”

“Then put the kettle on. I deserve a cuppa for trying to be nice.”

Jefferson stepped to the side to let him in and went to retrieve the bags from Graham's arms.

The entire Mad Hatter was bright and modern, with products placed perfectly on shelves and a welcoming atmosphere that made you feel comfortable, despite the unusual items on display. Jefferson's office was nothing like the rest of the shop. It was a windowless room that also doubled as inventory and, consequently, was cluttered and dark, much like the pawnshop. Being the opposite of Rhys in all things, Jefferson detested spending time alone in there. He was a sociable person and would prefer to deal with clients on a daily basis than live in isolation. When Rhys mentioned he should find a more private place to work, Jefferson had looked at him as if he were crazy.

“If I wanted to be alone, I'd have stayed home, Rumple.”

Rhys helped himself to the electric kettle and mismatched mugs. Behind him, Jefferson was asking Graham to go get them some Shawarma from across the street. As soon as he closed the door, he began fumbling with the plastic bags, looking for his costume like a little boy on Christmas morning. When his tailcoat was finally revealed, he gasped so loudly that Rhys began to smile.

“It's _just_ what I wanted!”

“The rest of it is in the basket- no, don't put it on-”

“Shut up, I want to see how it looks.”

“Please, keep your shirt on-”

“Be glad I'm still wearing pants.”

“Jefferson-”

“It's my office!”

Rhys focused on preparing his tea and waited for him to dress up. He should've known this was going to happen. Still, when he was done, Rhys couldn't help but admire the result. This was truly one of his best works.

After much deliberation, Jefferson had decided to go to his Halloween party as a ringmaster and it was up to Rhys to make his fuzzy vision of “something purple and sexy but not too much and I need a hat” into something actually feasible. He'd tailored a tailcoat out of purple velvet, with baroque details in black, and the final result fit like a glove. The matching top hat had to be outsourced, something he detested doing, but the final result was a thing a of beauty. He'd be revisiting that partnership in the future. Jefferson had gone back and forth about a corset, until Rhys made the decision for him and settled on a leather harness, thus making his work much easier; it was fairly simple to do, a leather strap around the waist and two over the shoulders, but he'd sewn a purple pattern onto it, like that of the tailcoat. The harness served no purpose other than being aesthetically pleasing, but it complemented the tailcoat so well.

It was worth every penny and the endless hours he'd put into it.

“Please, don't take a selfie,” Rhys begged him, when he saw him get his phone.

“I'm not, I don't have a mirror.” Jefferson admired himself on the cellphone camera. “God you're a genius, this is just what I wanted.” He took the hat off and took an exaggerated bow. “Jefferson Hats, your humble ringmaster. Welcome to the freak show.”

“You're not going to welcome people like this, will you?”

“You bet your ass I will.”

There was a knock on the door. He took the tailcoat off before answering and getting their food from Graham – Rhys didn't want to imagine what the kid thought Jefferson was doing shirtless. Or maybe he was already used to it.

Jefferson sat in front of him, on the other side of his cluttered desk.

“I was promised apologies, as far as I remember,” he said, though his tone was lighter than before.

“Isn't the coat enough?”

Through a mouthful, Jefferson reminded him, “I paid for the coat.”

“It was worth every penny.”

“That it was.”

He didn't push and Rhys drank his tea in silence, watching him eat. After a moment, he said, “I was angry at a lot of things last week and I took it out on you.”

Jefferson looked at him, fairly impressed with that level of honesty.

“And I'm sorry,” Rhys added, mistaking his silence for pressure.

“You don't apologize.”

“I did now.”

“Yes... it's disturbing.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you want something?”

“I wanted to give you your costume.”

“Yes, but did you want something else? From me?”

“I did not.”

“No, you're right,” Jefferson agreed. “You wouldn't try to bribe me with clothes if you wanted a favor. You'd try to make a deal, that is much more you.”

And then, he smiled in a way Rhys didn't like one bit.

“What?”

“Did you want to _talk_?”

Rhys answered so quickly (“I wanted to apologize, and now that I did-”) that Jefferson leaped to the right conclusion easily.

“Oh my god! Rhys Gold wants to _talk_!”

“Eat your lunch, Jefferson.”

“Is it Bae? Is it a _woman_?”

“Do you want to braid my hair next?”

Jefferson forgot all about his lunch and leaned closer, chin resting on his hands, like a girl waiting for juicy gossip. It was so outrageous that Rhys got up in a violent motion and paced to the door. Then he came back and dropped himself heavily on the chair.

“You insightful bastard.”

“We haven't done this since Cora.”

“We didn't talk about Cora.”

“Yes we did! Or rather, _you_ did. A lot.”

“I was drunk, Jefferson,” he protested. “You took advantage of my vulnerable state.”

“I asked you about your feelings, Rumple. I didn't kiss you.”

“All I wanted was a ride home.”

“So, what is your _girl problem_?” he asked, before they got sidetracked.

“Don't ever call it that again.”

“Yes, yes, but what is it?”

Rhys sighed. “I met a woman.”

Jefferson leaned forward. “Yeees?”

“We're not dating.”

“Are you creeping around her, like you do with Be-”

“I don't creep- No, Jefferson! We're doing... your kind of thing.”

“My kind of thing?”

“The kind of thing you do with your friends.”

His chin fell. “ _Really_ ?”

“If you ask me for details, I swear-”

“I won't. I'm just surprised. You never seemed to be into this kind of thing.”

“She is.”

“And you're...?”

“I'm curious.”

He shook his head, considering it. “Curiosity is a good place to start. So you're not...”

He trailed off.

“Not...?” Rhys asked.

“You know...”

He scoffed. “You can list me every kink you know in alphabetical order but you can't ask me if I'm having sex?”

“I didn't think you'd react well to the question.”

“We're not.”

“And you're okay with that?”

“No.” He thought about it. “I'm fine with it. I was. I understand that's what we agreed on.”

“But now you want to change this.”

“Yes.”

“And she doesn't.”

“She does. She just won't.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Something is holding her back.”

Jefferson wasn't smiling anymore. “Is the something a person?”

“It doesn't matter-”

“Oh, boy...” he said, his joy quickly vanished.

“It's not as bad as it sounds-”

“It's Belle, isn't it?” he said, surprising Rhys not with his quick deduction, but by speaking in a quiet, almost sorrowful voice. He'd always thought that, were Jefferson to find out about his relationship with Belle, he'd react to it like a juicy piece of gossip on which to sink his teeth. Apparently, he was wrong. When he thought Jefferson was about to start lecturing him on professionalism and question the integrity of Belle's reviews, he asked, “We're friends, aren't we?”

Rhys stared at him, caught by surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“We're friends? And don't give me your typical 'what is this mysterious thing you call friendship never heard of it I hate everything and everyone' bullshit answer-”

“Never have I said that-”

“We're friends. If I died tomorrow, you'd be sad.”

“If... that's your definition of friendship, then-”

“Rhys, no, seriously. We've known each other for ten years. You know my daughter and I'm friends with Neal. You even kept me from breaking the partnership with Regina last year.”

“I didn't want to look for another place to work, really.”

“No, you saw that I was about to make a bad decision, and I mean a _really_ bad decision, and you stopped me. You didn't want me to be hurt.”

Rhys shrugged with stubbornness. “I suppose.”

“Rumple, c'mon.”

It had never occurred to him before to evaluate the state of his relationship with Jefferson. Growing up, he didn't have a lot of friends, especially male ones. He was considered a delicate child, more of a target than one of the boys, even his own father said so. The moment Milah gave him the slightest attention, he was hooked not because she was beautiful, but because he finally had someone to talk to. By the time Jefferson intruded his life, though, even Milah had walked away and he was living mostly in isolation.

Regina and Jefferson were his business partners and he liked that relationship to be professional, but while Regina was more than happy to oblige, Jefferson was way too friendly to keep things short and simple. He liked to come into the shop and talk, or keep him longer after a meeting to ask about Baelfire or tell him about Grace. They'd shared many drinks and pointless conversations and ridiculousness over the past eight years to be considered mere partners. Rhys trusted him, despite not always seeing eye to eye. More importantly, Jefferson put up with him when he was his worst self. Not many people had thought him worthy of that.

“Yes,” he gave in. “All things considered, you are my friend.”

Jefferson hesitated. “And as your friend, would you want me to be honest?”

Rhys knew he wasn't going to like what was coming, but he still nodded.

Jefferson took a deep breath and said, “Belle is not going to leave her fiance, and this is Cora all over again.”

Rhys stared at him. He looked almost apologetic.

“Belle's nothing like Cora,” he said.

“No, she actually has a heart and she probably likes you, but that won't stop her from getting married.”

“I don't know,” Rhys said, hating how small his voice sounded. “More often than not, I get the feeling that she hates her fiance.”

“You told me once Milah hated you for years before she finally had the guts to call it quits.”

He was right. Belle could hate that man all she wanted, Rhys knew first hand that distaste alone was not enough to end a relationship. Couples stuck together for all kinds of reasons and Belle had never given him hers. Perhaps she needed his money, or she was scared of him, or the sex was truly amazing. He couldn't tell. Milah was unhappy for a good seven years, and if he were to be honest, so was he. They were miserable together, but stubbornness and a small child, combined with the fact that they'd both come from unhappy families, forced them to push through, until their marriage became so unbearable that the only way out was through infidelity and heartbreak. He couldn't bare to look at her nowadays and part of him still felt mournful about that. Baelfire might have had both parents in his life if Milah hadn't been desperate to get away from the man and the city that had taken fourteen years of her life.

“Ouch,” he said, quietly.

“Sorry for being blunt” Jefferson said, looking pained, as if he'd expected Rhys to provide him with something easy to talk about, and instead dropped a life-or-death matter on his head.

“Yes. But it was still accurate.”

“How did it start?”

“What?

“Your thing with Belle, whatever it is.”

“She started it. No, I did. No...” He rubbed his eyes. “ _She_ started it, she asked to try something. I should've let it be a one-time thing. Instead, I offered an arrangement out of it.”

“What arrangement?”

Rhys remained quiet.

Jefferson sighed with impatience. “I'm not asking for the sordid details. Just an overall understanding of how this works.”

“Basically, if she wants to try something out, she can ask me. We try it. She leaves. Then...” With a frown, he realized there was nothing more to add to it. This was it. This was the extent of their relationship. Despite having gone over it several times, he hadn't truly understood just how _little_ it was until he said it out loud. “That's it.”

“Why would you do that?”

Rhys almost laughed. “You've been giving me a hard time for having a crush for months and now you have no idea where that came from?”

“I meant what do you get out of it? Other than being with her.”

He shrugged. “Testing?”

Jefferson shook his head. “Everything is business with you.”

“You talk as if contracts were a foreign concept to BDSM.”

“And you negotiate as if emotions were a foreign concept to you.”

There was something harsh in Jefferson's tone. Not a judgment, something that leaned more towards concern, like a teacher lecturing a pupil. Rhys didn't like it and it must have shown on his face but Jefferson went on regardless.

“I might not know much about Belle, but I know enough to see that she's looking for an escape. And the last time _you_ were this involved with someone, it was another married woman who fucked you up.  You can't just jump into an arrangement like this with so much baggage and hope it turns out for the best.”

“That's something coming from you,” Rhys muttered.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Rhys huffed and ignored the question.

“Oh, no,” Jefferson said, rather aggressively. “Now I want to hear it. What is that supposed to mean?”

“It's supposed to mean that I made a few mistakes, but that is nothing compared to you.”

“I've made plenty of mistakes!” he snapped. “And you know why? Because nobody ever sat me down and told me I was behaving like a self-destructive mess. I learned it the hard way, through poor decisions and meeting people who treated me like shit.”

Jefferson paused, suddenly flushed, and Rhys knew better than to interrupt. This might be the first time he ever thought of them as friends, but it occurred to him that he'd been a rather bad one to Jefferson in eight years. He'd treated his stories and misadventures as something to be disgusted by or mocked, mistaking the jest in his voice for pride when he might actually be looking for someone to talk to. He didn't even let him complain about Grace going to college, despite the fact that he'd done the same about Baelfire many times in the past. Had he really been so self-absorbed that he'd dismissed Jefferson's own problems as something annoying that didn't concern him?

“Sex can be just sex, and that's fine,” Jefferson said. “But not like this. Not when you both clearly want it to be more than that and are just too stubborn to do anything about it.”

“I know,” Rhys sighed.

Jefferson looked at him with sudden caution. “Were you expecting me to tell you this was a good idea?”

Rhys didn't answer. Of course he did. He'd been telling himself to call it quits all week and couldn't think of a good reason not to. If anyone would encourage him in the other direction, it had to be Jefferson, the ever romantic, ever liberal flirt who'd been pushing him to make a move on Belle for months. If he thought this was a terrible idea, then Rhys was truly screwed.

“If you want me to be comforting, I can be comforting,” he offered.

“Don't, I can't stand it when you're nice to me.”

Jefferson chuckled. “May I ask about Cora?”

“What about Cora?”

“Wasn't she the same?”

Rhys wondered what exactly he'd told Jefferson two years prior, when he'd drunkenly called him for a ride. That night was a fog in his mind, with disconnected memories of a bar and the inside of Jefferson's car, but nothing felt cohesive. It was maybe a proof of Jefferson's friendship that he had never brought that up in a conversation before now.

He'd always found Cora to be intriguing and way better than the boring husband she'd clearly married for money. She'd initiated the flirt in one of the few occasions they found themselves under the same roof and it was somewhat thrilling to know just how annoyed Regina would be if she ever found out he was trying to seduce her mother. That, of course, had been a mistake. Cora was seducing him from the start and he was falling for it. By the end of the night, he was in her bed, where he remained for the better part of six months. He became “the other man”, at her beck and call whenever her husband was away, completely enthralled by this woman who was one of the most interesting persons he'd ever met. They made plans together as if the affair might some day transition into something legitimate and they could be truly happy together. Then, as suddenly as it had started, she called the whole thing quits and never gave him an explanation. She was probably bored of him.

Cora had taken a lot more than Belle, but he wanted to give Belle so much more than he'd given Cora. If given the chance, he'd let her have so much power over him she could destroy whatever pieces of his heart Cora hadn't managed to break.

Rhys wanted to argue with Jefferson's logic, but couldn't. Of course it was the same mistake all over again.

“Is this because Bae's leaving-” Jefferson asked.

“Of course it's because Bae's leaving,” Rhys admitted. Then he shook his head. “No, not entirely. This New York thing is messing with my head and I hate every bit of it, but I'm usually much smarter than this. If Bae wasn't leaving, then maybe I'd have put an end to it myself weeks ago. But truth is... I like her.”

“Oh, I know. No one makes eight different glass dildos for the same woman if they don't love her.”

“ _Like_ her, and it was seven.” He rubbed his eyes. “I'll regret it if I don't break this off, won't I?”

“Statistically speaking... that's a probability.”

“Great.” He got up. “Just a warning, I'll be even grumpier than usual.”

Jefferson raised a hand. “Uhn, you know what might cheer you up?”

“Don't say your annual orgy.”

“It's a Halloween Munch, mind you. And I think you'd have fun.”

“Belle is going to attend with her fiance. How am I going to have fun?”

“There'll be candy. And Mal is bringing her new girlfriend, she wants everyone to meet her.”

“Yes, I know. I'm going to work now to finish her chastity belt.”

“See, why can't all past relationships end like this?”

“Because I never had a _relationship_ with Mal, so to speak. But that doesn't mean I'm in the mood for seeing the people I slept with being happy.”

“Does that mean I should cancel Cora's invitation?”

Rhys glared at him.

“Too soon? Okay.”

“Yes,” he said, already out the door. “And it's for things like that that I don't like being friendly.”

“Hey, Rumple.”

Rhy turned, hand on the handle.

“If things get really shitty, I got Scotch at home. I promise to get you drunk and take advantage of you the old-fashion way. No more feelings.”

Rhys scoffed, the closest thing he could get to laughter. Jefferson was a pain, but sometimes he actually liked him.

 


	19. Regina's Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaston.

Rhys supposed that, at some point during the weekend, he'd have to call Belle and talk things through. It wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation but there was no way around it. He knew, and Jefferson had just confirmed, that what they had could only end in tears. Belle had to think the same, given how their last encounter had ended. It was only a matter of who'd be brave enough to make the call first.

It was probably going to be her, bravery had never been his strongest suit. Still, he made plans to force himself to call her on Sunday morning. That seemed appropriate. Sundays had become their day, the moment he looked forward to and that made everything in a rotten week look better. It'd give him 48 hours to prepare and to hold on to hope that something might change, that she wouldn't be gone for good this time. He couldn't imagine a scenario where they broke things up and Belle could continue to be his friend or even his tester. She was going to miss her dearly.

No more conversations, no more banter, no more her.

Jefferson was right, they hadn't really thought the consequences through.

There was someone in front of the pawnshop as he parked and Rhys couldn't think of a more unfortunate day to finally get a client. All he wanted was to work in peace and solitude but the other man seemed eager to get in. He was peering through the glass and, in the space of five minutes, he tried the front door twice.

“I'm afraid the shop's closed today,” Rhys said, coming out of his car, empty basket in hand.

The man looked at him, eyes quickly registering the limp, as people often did.

“Are you Mr. Gold?” he asked, a little too confrontational.

“I am. But as I said, the shop's not open today.”

“I'm not here to buy anything. My name is Gaston Knight.”

Rhys shrugged when he didn't provide more information. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Belle French's fiance? She must have mentioned me.”

The stranger stopped talking just as Rhys came to a halt in front of him. He wished he hadn't. Now, they were face to face, or rather, face to massive chest.

“You're... Belle's fiance?” Rhys half-repeated, half-asked, looking up at the man in front of him. Gaston Knight was at least a head taller than him, and much broader. Somehow, this young man was _exactly_ like he'd imagined he'd be, from the blue eyes and the chisel chin, to the strong arms and the vaguely aggressive posture. He was handsome, with the kind of face that wouldn't be misplaced in a woman's magazine, but there was nothing particularly unique or distinctive about him. Just another typical all-American boy. Belle's parents probably liked him.

Rhys tried to evaluate the situation as carefully as he could. “If you're here to get a matching costume, I'm afraid I'm too-”

“It's not that,” he interrupted. “I just wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

Gaston looked around the street, giving him a perfect view of his profile. Typical or not, he couldn't see a single imperfection on his skin. When he crossed his arms, the muscles in his arms and chest pushed against his sweater. Rhys felt his heart start beating faster.

“It's rather chilly outside. Do you mind?”

He cocked his head to the shop. Rhys looked at him from head to toe. His sweater and jeans seemed too tight to conceal a weapon but you never knew, and if he was here in a jealous rampage, Rhys doubted he stood a chance in a physical confrontation.

“I'm busy,” he said, in what he hoped was a neutral voice.

“It won't take five minutes of your time.”

And then, he smiled. An arrogant smile, as if he was aware that he was his superior in every way. No threat in it, though. Rhys began to wonder if this young man would even be able to concoct a plan to trick him into being alone with him. Seemed more likely that he'd give in to a jealous impulse and throw rocks at his window, or punch him in the middle of the street. Still, when he walked into the shop, he turned on every light so that people outside could see him waving manically for help if it came to it.

The moment they walked in, though, Gaston lost all interest in him and went to examine the trinkets on a nearby shelf.

“What a nice shop,” Gaston said, being overtly condescending.

“Thank you.”

“I thought you were a tailor, not a... what, pawnbroker and antiques dealer?”

“That's what the sign says, yes.”

“So you are also a tailor?”

“Yes. Careful with that, please,” he said, when Gaston picked a delicate glass ballerina in his large hand.

He didn't put it down. “I wasn't sure. Regina didn't tell us much, just that you're her friend and you make costumes.”

“I am and I do. Are you going to buy that?”

“She showed us some pictures from last year's Halloween party. Rather racy.”

It wasn't a question, so Rhys didn't answer.

Gaston put the ballerina down.

“Have you started working on Belle's costume yet?”

“She's been here twice.”

“Is that a yes.”

“It is”

“Is it that way?”

Rhys leaped in front of him before Gaston had the chance to get to the back of the shop. If Regina's Halloween pictures were enough to rattle him, the items he was working on might give him a stroke. And the only costume left was Mal's girlfriend's chastity belt and schoolgirl uniform. If he thought that belonged to Belle, Rhys could foresee trouble.

“That's my private office,” he said.

“Don't you let clients in?”

“You're not my client.”

“I'm paying for a product, therefor-”

“No,” Rhys said, firmly, “your _fiance_ is paying for a product.”

“Yes, she told me all about your arrangement but...” He looked around. It was amazing how much disdain that man could infuse in such a simple gesture. “I don't believe dusting your trinkets is a fair trade. I've heard you're expensive.”

“So?”

“So, if you let me pay the bill, my fiance won't have to waste her Sunday afternoon slaving away-”

“Then you should talk to your fiance. I'm not making deals behind her back. Besides, she told me it's supposed to be a surprise,” he added, for good measure.

Gaston didn't seem pleased. Rhys crossed his hands over the cane and squared his shoulders, in an attempt to look more intimidating. However, he was still a scrawny middle-aged man with a lame ankle staring up at a twenty-something who'd probably already been to the gym that day.

“Do you believe people in relationships should keep secrets, Mr. Gold?” Gaston asked.

“Does your bride know you're here?”

“Of course she does!” he answered, through his teeth, the question clearly making him angry.

“Then you can come back with her at any time.”

Gaston crossed his muscular arms again, his condescending expression turning to frustration and then anger. Rhys wished he could say it didn't make him nervous but it did. If this man ever lost his temper, he wouldn't want to be around to see it. The last time he was in a fight with someone that big, he ended up with a broken ankle.

Was Belle ever scared of him?

“She's my fiance,” Gaston said, with a hint of petulance, as if they were debating ownership.

“And she's my client,” Rhys replied. “What's your point?”

Gaston paused, collecting his thoughts. Then, “I know what Regina does for a living, I'm not stupid.”

“Whatever gave you that idea.”

There was another pause while Gaston frowned, and Rhys could tell he wasn't sure he was being offended. Ultimately, he decided to move the subject along.

“Belle, she's a sweet girl,” he said. “I don't think she truly understands the nature of what Regina does for a living. Or the nature of what that woman and her friends do for fun- what are you laughing at?”

Rhys bit his lips. He'd been smirking without noticing. “Nothing.”

“No. You are smiling. Do you find anything I just said amusing?”

“Only that Miss French seems to be a clever woman.”

“I never said she wasn't clever.”

“And as such, she's capable of deciding who she should associate with-”

“I never said she wasn't capable, either!”

“You're implying it.”

Gaston huffed with frustration. This had clearly taken a turn for the unexpected.

“I'm going to be her husband,” he said, trying to rephrase. “All I want is to make sure my future wife is secure.”

“Why wouldn't she be?”

Gaston took a step forward. Rhys fought the urge to step back. When he spoke, his voice was low and there was a warning underlining every word.

“Because, if you're friends with Regina, you're probably as depraved as she is, and I don't like Belle being around you.”

Rhys, who was more than familiar with such a word and had thought of it many times in the last couple of months, was suddenly ruffled by it, as if the real weight of that insult hadn't truly hit until he heard the other man use it. Up until now, the word “depraved”, as ashamed as it made him feel sometimes, didn't bring to mind anything particularly bad. It made him think of Jefferson's quirkiness, and of Regina's vast collection of sex toys (some that he wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole), and, more recently, of Belle and her preferences and how free and beautiful she looked in those few hours they shared together.

When Gaston said it, though, there was something else implied there. Something filthy and that should make him deeply ashamed of what he was because there was no place for such things in a civilized society. There was nothing beautiful about sex when it was outside the norm. The thought of his bride associating with someone like that was hard for him to swallow because Belle was part of that elite group he liked to call “normal people”.

Gaston was normal.

Rhys was not.

“I'm not depraved, Mr. Knight,” he said. “And I have no interest in _corrupting_ your fiance, or whatever it is that you think I'm doing.”

“I think you're giving her an expensive costume in exchange for a maid because it gets you off to have that pretty girl under your thumb.”

A distracting image of Belle came to his mind, though this was most definitely  _not_ the time for it. Beautiful Belle, in her white lace lingerie and her impossible heels, holding a feather duster and working at the front of the shop, displayed for the rest of the world to see, just as much as that glass ballerina. The ball gag she'd wanted so badly the week before now fit between her lovely lips, her cheeks slightly pink but her chin held up proud.

“Well?”

Rhys blinked the image away. Gaston was still standing in front of him, awaiting his answer.

“I think it's time for you to leave,” Rhys said.

Gaston smirked like he'd heard a confession and didn't move a muscle.

“Belle and I, we believe there's a proper way for people to behave, Mr. Gold.”

“Do you, now?”

“If Regina thinks differently, that's her problem. Belle shouldn't have to deal with the consequences of it.”

“Wow. Do you shame all women with that mouth, or is it just your fiance?”

He saw Gaston's hands turning into fists and realized he'd pushed it too far. Without warning, he took a step towards him, saying, “Now you listen here-”

And then Rhys' phone started ringing, freezing them both in place. Gaston stared at him and Rhys stared right back, knowing that he'd only look vulnerable if he lowered his eyes, even if to reach for the phone that was currently buzzing against his chest.

“Won't you get that?” Gaston asked, eyes still on him.

Rhys took the phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen, just long enough to see Belle's name. He declined the call.

“It's not important,” Rhys said. “And if you're done, I have work to do.”

“Your shop is empty.”

“Not empty enough. So if you-”

The phone rang again.

This time, he answered with an urgent, “This isn't a good time,” trying to imply as much as he could in just five words.

He heard Belle taking in a deep breath, a sound he now associated with good ideas, as she gathered up courage to be honest with him and herself. “We need to talk-”

“Yes, I understand that you're concerned about your costume,” he cut in, quickly, hoping her soft voice couldn't be overheard, “but I'm tangled up right now.”

“Of course, Mr. Gold, I'm sorry to bother you, but it's a matter of urgency,” she said, and Rhys could tell she understood the situation was not ideal for a conversation, but couldn't wait any longer.

“I insist-”

“I have to cancel my order.”

Rhys went quiet and looked up at Gaston, whose face had become impatient but not any less threatening.

“I am very sorry,” Belle told him. “I know that you're... you've been great. To work with. But I can't- I need to focus on the wedding now.”

“The wedding with Mr. Knight?”

It was Belle's turn to go quiet. Gaston became immediately pale as he realized who was on the other side of that call.

_Knows you're here my ass._

“Yes,” she said cautiously in his ear. “Yes, that is it. I don't believe I've mentioned his name before, though.”

“Oh, no, you didn't, Miss French,” he said, with great satisfaction, “but he is standing in front of me as we speak. Would you like to say hi?”

Her silence became stunned.

In front of him, any trace of threat or anger vanished from the other man's face.

“I'm... he... wait, _what_?”

“Yes, it seems that he wanted to make sure that I'm not one of Regina's- how did you put it, Mr. Knight?”

Gaston fumed in front of him. In all the books Jefferson had recommended him over the years, Rhys had read extensively about how exhilarating power could be, and he experienced it plenty with Belle but this was _so much better_. He could have fucked her right then and there, in front of her stupid husband-to-be, and it wouldn't have felt nearly as good as installing fear and panic into that man's heart.

“Oh yes,” he continued, “one of Regina's depraved friends. He's here to defend your _reputation_ or something, to make sure you're not _as filthy as me_.”

“Hey!” Gaston protested. “That is _not_ what I said!”

“Oh, god,” Belle said, as she heard his voice. Rhys could feel the rage coming from the other side of the line. “Put him on, _immediately.”_

“Certainly.” To Gaston, he smiled. “It's for you.”

Gaston looked ready to kill him, but took the phone with an innocent, “Hey, babe.”

Belle's voice came through as a shriek, so loud Rhys had to fight the urge to laugh. “ _What the fuck do you think you're doing_ ?!”

He supposed that answered his earlier question. Whatever it was that bound her to that man, it wasn't fear. If anything, Gaston was the one beginning to shake, caught in the act of intruding in her life. Given what he'd said so far, though, it made sense that his old-fashioned ways extended to never hitting a woman, though he seemed to feel free to be judgmental and controlling.

Rhys watched as Gaston paced away, phone pressed to his ear, trying to have a private conversation in cautious tones and a quiet voice that was interrupted several times by Belle's muffled screams that only became increasingly louder.

“Babe, I was only- but you _know_ how Regina is- but he's clearly- of course I'm not, babe, but he is- trust has nothing to do with- can we please not do this-”

Finally, he gave up trying and just stood by the door, listening to Belle's voice as it lost every composure against his ear. After a couple of minutes, he came back and handed the phone over.

“She wants to speak to you,” Gaston said, more polite than he had been up until then. As soon as Rhys took the phone back, he turned around and left the shop, slamming the front door in the process.

“If he caused you any trouble, I apologize,” Belle said, her voice hoarse from screaming.

“None at all. This was _quite_ amusing, Miss French. And about your costume-”

“I'll come by this weekend so we can talk.”

“Of course. Have a nice day.”

Rhys hung up the phone. Through the glass, he could see Gaston stomping away, humiliated and angry.

His future wife should do something about his manners.

_That is_ , he thought, feeling better than he had all week,  _if they get married at all._

 

 


	20. Confession (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of her fight with Gaston, Belle realizes that things with Rhys can't go back to the way they were and makes an important phone call – only to be interrupted by an unexpected gift.

Gaston was gone, to begin with, and he'd taken the relentless begging and arguing that had filled the last twenty four hours with him. Not even when they'd decided to put the fight on pause and get some sleep did she manage to find silence, the sound of his breathing by her side making her cringe and the blood pumping in her ears a constant reminder of the anger she was trying to supress. Now, though, she could put her thoughts in order.

This was it, then. This was how their story was supposed to go. Looking back, she wasn't even sure how they'd gotten there. It had something to do with the screaming, there had been a lot of it, mostly on her part. Now that the argument was over, it all felt like a dream, like she was watching someone else's relationship implode.

This woman, who looked like her but spoke a lot louder and felt a lot angrier, was throwing facts in her boyfriend's face like a cliche. She'd promised herself that she'd never become that woman, the kind that kept a tally of her boyfriend's faults in her head, ready to be used if the occasion called for it. This woman, who promised that she held no grudge over the cheating that had broken up their first attempt at a relationship, was brandishing that part of their history like a sword and she looked to Belle like a resentful bitch. She hated that woman, and she had no idea how she'd gotten to that point.

She didn't even care about the cheating, not really. It had been an immature move on his part from when they were barely out of their teens, and who was she to say temptation was easy to resist? But that particular sin was her leverage and she felt vicious enough to use it. The cheating was forgivable, the fact that he still thought that admitting to his mistakes and saying sorry meant she ought to immediately forgive him was not.

And then there was the controlling behavior.

And the fact that he was so judgmental.

And she had to entertain his friends' girlfriends whenever they were out and- No, she did not like them. She could barely tolerate them- Yes, she did tell him, several times already. He just – didn't – listen.

By the time they got to the heart of the matter, it was long past midnight and she was losing stamina.

“But these people!” Gaston protested, with expected self-righteousness. “These people, you don't understand what they do! You shouldn't have to be alone with someone like that!”

It took all of her might not to shout that “these people” were a lot more like her than he wanted to admit. She was part of “these people”, as much as she could, and he _knew_ that, he just decided not to acknowledge it because it conflicted with this image of her that he had in his head. This was the man she was going to marry. He'd rather think of her as naive because that was what she'd been when they'd first met, a woman who should be protected from the corrupt ways of the world.

When it became clear that they'd solve nothing, Gaston offered to leave and let her think for a few days. Belle didn't let him. She didn't want to cool her head anymore. That was what he was counting on, that she'd calm down and then realize that she'd blown the whole thing out of proportion. She wanted him in her apartment in the morning, so that she could still feel this anger and pick up the fight from where they'd left off.

By the time morning came, though, the little sheepishness that she'd dragged out of him had been replaced by the usual stubbornness. The ultimatum was given at breakfast.

“You won't even set a date, Belle. Sometimes I wonder if you want to marry me at all.”

This was it, the point of no return. She had to make a choice.

And now that Gaston was finally gone, she was exhausted. It was nearing 10pm and, after the constant back-and-forth they'd spent their Saturday, the I-didn't-say-that's and the many bathroom breaks she'd taken just so she wouldn't have to stare at him any longer... she felt like postponing this phone call because she didn't want to have to deal with the consequences of her choices anymore.

And, if Belle were to be honest with herself, part of her still expected that she'd come to her senses and call Gaston, saying that she'd made a terrible mistake and changed her mind. That wasn't about to happen, though. She knew that this was the only way to go. She wasn't about to take her final decision back, not now. It was time to solve everything else and get her life back on track.

She called his number and Rhys picked up after the first ring. That made her smile. He'd probably been waiting for her call and, even though they had never lied to each other about what their relationship was, she couldn't help but feel a little guilty. At times, it felt like she'd roped him into this mess she'd made.

His eager voice answered, “Miss French.”

“Hi, Rhys,” she said, dropping the formalities that had permeated their relationship. There was no point in pretending anymore. If she was going to have this conversation, she might as well treat him like the friend that he'd been to her.

Mirroring her, Rhys called her “Belle” and then went quiet to allow her to speak. She didn't. How does one begin something like this? After a moment, she decided “Thank you” was as good a place to start as any.

“You're welcome, but what for?”

“A lot of things. Most recently for telling me what Gaston was up to. It's not the first time he pulls something like that and I'm glad that you didn't leave me in the dark.”

“He's your fiance, of course you should know. And, to be honest, I did enjoy the look of panic on his face.”

Belle made a humming sound with her sore throat, the closest she could get to laughter right now.

“And how is Mr. Knight?” Rhys asked her, trying to sound conversational.

Belle bit her lip. That was the question, the whole reason of her call. Yet, she felt compelled to answer with a generic “he's fine” because that would make things easier. Their talk would be a lot less scary and she wouldn't have to think about her feelings anymore.

“I'm sorry,” he said, after sensing her discomfort. “That is none of my business.”

“It is your business. It's been for quite some time. And now... I can't believe he tried to bully you.”

“It's fine.”

“It's not. He does this. Men can't even look at me that he-”

Belle stopped. She hadn't bashed Gaston once and she wasn't about to start tonight, when there was no point to it.

“Anyway, I didn't call because of that. I wanted to talk.”

“Yes?”

“Maybe I should've stopped by in person, but I know the Halloween party is next week and you're probably overworked with your costumes.”

“Not at all, I'm on schedule. Actually, I'm ahead of schedule. I was-” he cleared his throat. “I was in a very good mood yesterday. Very productive.”

She smirked at the phone. “So it was fun tormenting him?”

“It was.”

“You're wicked.”

“Thank you. The only costume I have left is yours. I think we've been too... distracted... to work on it properly.”

She heard the flirt in his words. Had this been any other day, it might have piqued her interest – and maybe it still did, a little – but that wasn't the reason why she'd called and she had to keep herself on track.

“It's fine, Rhys, leave it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It's one week away, I won't make you do it now.”

“I don't mind. I'm used to working miracles.”

“I have no doubts about that, but it's fine, really. I don't even know what I'd order.”

“I have some ideas.”

“Do they fall under the sexy spectrum I was trying to avoid?”

“That's very presumptuous of you.”

“So they do.”

“Of course, but you're still presumptuous.”

He was funny. She loved his sense of humor, the way he didn't really try to make her laugh but still managed to.

“No costume, then?” he insisted, sounding disappointed.

“No, no costume. Don't worry, I'll just go as a librarian. It's been my go-to Halloween costume since I was eight years old.”

She waited for a remark to be made about that, something flirtatious, or perhaps a query about her lack of imagination as a child. He said nothing.

“Anyway, the reason I called-”

“I got something that's perfect for you.”

The courage that had been building up in her was silenced by confusion. “What did you say?”

“If you're going as a librarian, I've got something that'd be perfect for that.”

“Rhys, really, you don't have to make-”

“I won't. It's already done,” he said, quick so she couldn't refute him. “You'd just have to pick it up.”

“What is it?”

“You should come and see it for yourself.”

“Now you're teasing me.”

“I am,” he admitted. “I enjoy teasing you.”

_I enjoy it when you tease me_ , she didn't say. It wasn't the time for it.

“There's no harm in looking, I suppose. Should I come by tomorrow?”

He hummed as he thought about it.

“Actually,” he said, “I'm at the shop right now.”

“I'd take forever to get there at this time.”

“I'm on my way out. I was going to suggest that I drop it at your place. As long as you don't object.”

Belle was taken aback by the boldness of his request. She could only remember seeing him outside of his shop once, when they crossed paths at the  _Mad Hatter_ , Rhys coming in and Belle walking out. They gave each other a vague greeting before going their separate ways. Other than that, the pawnshop had always been their meeting point, another way to keep their relationship from getting too personal.

“You could come by tomorrow, as usual. I don't want to impose,” he told her. “And if your fiance objects to-”

“He's not here,” Belle said. “He's... he left. He's gone.”

There was a pause, followed by a neutral, “I see.”

“I think I'm out of your way,” she said, not wanting to talk about Gaston anymore.

“Where do you live?”

She told him.

“I'm driving, so it's not that far. I could be there in half an hour.”

The word “no” formed in her mind, in a prim and proper part of her who insisted they were getting off track and that she should focus. She knew better than to invite him over, just as she should have known better before fooling around with him. This wasn't the way she was supposed to behave.

That advice was summarily ignored, as per usual.

“There's no harm in that,” she said. “If you truly don't mind.”

“Not at all,” he said, getting ready to leave. “I'll bring it over and then-”

“And then we should talk.”

“Yes,” he agreed, unshaken by her serious tone. “Yes, I believe we should.”

 

*

 

Belle didn't like to have people over and experienced a familiar sense of shame when Rhys arrived at her apartment. On her pitiful salary, she could only afford a small kitchenette in a building with no elevator, and visitors only accentuated how small the place was and how sad it was that the entirety of her life now fit in such a tiny space.

To have Rhys stand in the middle of it was something she wished she'd never seen. With the three-piece suit, he looked out of place and she thought, not for the first time, that they were different people. The nature of his work sometimes made her forget that he was a businessman, that he'd raised a son on his own, and that he had a whole life outside of their meetings that didn't involve a small apartment and menial jobs. When it came down to it, they had nothing in common. The only way she'd have crossed his path would have been as his maid.

“Is everything alright?”

She looked at him, in turmoil. No, everything was shit, but he wasn't her confidant. He wasn't here to hear about her many problems and the ways she wished life was different.

“It's fine,” she answered, following with, “Sorry about the mess,” because saying “I'm sorry for my crappy apartment,” would have been pathetic, though true.

“Compared to my shop, you're the epitome of organization.”

It was nice of him to say. There wasn't much in her apartment, other than a two-place table, an old couch, and a bed, none of witch belonged to her. She'd gotten a folding screen with a flowery pattern to split the room in two and create a bedroom but even that wasn't as successful as she'd hoped for, since it only made the room smaller. She'd improvised a bookcase by gluing cardboard boxes together and then painting them her favorite shade of blue, something that usually made her feel proud of her skills, but not tonight. With Rhys in the room – a man of taste, and whose shop had pristine glass counters, and who'd tied her to a fancy chair because he thought it'd look beautiful – she wished she'd just given in to Gaston's offers to buy her something from Ikea.

“I see you're a creative type,” he remarked, pointing at her bookcase. “Maybe you should work for me.”

“It's a silly thing, really,” she said, mortified. “Nothing really fits in this place.”

“It's better than my first apartment. We had to change Bae on the floor because we couldn't fit a changing table. Or afford one, for that matter.”

“You didn't have to wrap it.”

She pointed at the package he was carrying, trying to distract him from paying any real attention to her pitiful life. She'd rather remain the person he knew she was, someone who probably had everything figured out.

Rhys looked at the long, black box in his hand. He'd gone as far as to add a silver bow to it.

“As much as I'd like to take credit for it, this was meant to be a gift, but someone canceled it at the last minute. Lucky for you, as I think it's just what your costume needs.”

Belle wasn't sure she believed him, Rhys had always liked to make things grander than they had to be, with pretty packaging or baskets or handwritten instructions. It was part of why she loved working for him, he was dedicated to his art and it made her feel special.

She set the box on her little table, which was as long as the package. Rhys watched with the usual anxious look on his face, eager to see her reaction to her new toy. Inside the box there was a wooden cane, thin and of around 30 inches. It sat comfortably in a cushion of black wrapping paper, begging to be taken out of the box. One of its ends had been wrapped in black and red leather, carefully interlaced to form a plaid pattern. The tiniest red heart had been glued to the bottom of the handle. A lover's gift, for sure.

“A librarian with a cane?” she said.

“Technically, it's a pointer.”

“A what?”

“It's a, uhn, people use it for presentations. Or at least they did, before lasers were invented.”

“Oh, I see. I've never really seen one of these being used, other than... you know...”

“Cheesy porn movies? Yes, I don't think they're good for anything else, these days.”

“Was this supposed to go with the school girl uniform?”

“It was supposed to go with her girlfriend's Severe Headmistress costume but the school girl gave her a new one for her birthday and she told me to keep this and, well, I know you don't want a sexy costume, but I thought this would be a nice middle ground. In my opinion.”

She pulled it out of the box and held it in her hands. It wasn't as flexible as she'd thought it would be, but that probably made for a more powerful impact. The texture was smooth when she ran her fingers over it, no lumps, no cracks, no imperfections. As always, his work was impeccable.

“Severe librarian costume, then?”

“Sexy librarian who doesn't have to show skin to get what she wants, was more along the lines of what I was thinking,” he said.

“Genius.”

He bowed his head in gratitude.

“Thank you. Though Jefferson would probably say this title wouldn't sell.”

“Is this for impact play?”

“It is. It's for caning.”

“Does it feel like a paddle?”

She swung it in mid air, the limited space meaning that she had to be careful not to hit anything, including him. Rhys watched her motion with fascinated eyes, hands resting on top of his own cane as he stood still and away from her range of motion.

“I've heard it packs more of a sting,” he said.

“Feels like it. I've always thought I couldn't make much damage on this side of things,” she said, swinging again and feeling the weight of it. “A good tool makes all the difference, doesn't it?”

She liked the feel of it in her hand. Even a weakling like her could be a goddess with a weapon like that. When he didn't answer, she looked up from her new toy. He had his eyes on her, but was quick to blink away, flustered, saying, “It does, it really does. You wanted to talk to me.”

Belle looked at him, narrowing her eyes. Rhys held her gaze but she could see it took him some effort not to look away.

“Can I ask you something?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“And will you answer truthfully?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

“Given what I've told you in the past, I don't want you to just try to make me happy.”

“I promise.”

“Is this a gift or a request?”

He went quiet, the redness on his face intensifying under her scrutiny.

“If it's a request, I'd say yes. If it's only a gift, I wouldn't be disappointed.”

Finally, he lowered his eyes. Her hands squeezed the cane tighter.

“You're the one who usually makes the requests,” he muttered.

“I'm open to a change of pace.”

“Then... yes.”

“Yes, what?”

He stared at her, a little annoyance becoming evident amidst his embarrassment.

“You always make me say it, I just need you to be clear,” she told him, which was not entirely true. There was genuine concern there, she had to know that this was what he wanted, but there was also an underlying need to see this well-suited man, someone who was far too good for the likes of her, being brought to his knees. She wanted him on her level.

No, she wanted him lower. She needed to be above him at least once.

“I want you to use that on me,” he rasped, barely audible but still meeting her eye.

She forgot how to breathe. Despite being the one holding the bloody thing she actually thought his suggestion was going to go the other way around.

“Belle?”

“This is heavy,” she said, though what was really on her mind was just how easily she could hurt him with this if she wasn't careful. It was so much easier to be on the receiving end of a spanking. If that were the case, then she wouldn't have bat an eye at the cane or at how much pain it could cause her, but like this... it intimidated her. She could cause him pain and she wanted to, she could be the one to bring him to his knees and this was a new, exhilarating sensation.

“I'll help your through it,” he promised.

“And you'll be honest with me?”

“I will.”

Belle licked her lips. “Then come closer.”

 


	21. Confession (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys tries to be brave now that Gaston is out of the picture. Except that he might have made a mistake. Caning, masturbation and hurt feelings ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's finally here! The chapter that didn't want to write itself. The plan is to finish this story before the end of the year, so fingers crossed.

Tonight, Rhys was going to behave himself. He'd made that promise as he took Mal's rejected cane from the closet, and again as he procured a nice package for it, and once more as he tied a flashy white bow around it. Not because he wanted Belle's attention, mind you, but because there was no reason to be sloppy with something so precious.

Offering to stop by her apartment was a little bold on his part but he wasn't going to touch her. In fact, Belle didn't look interested in playing at all when she opened the door. Her eyes were red and her voice was husky from the fight she'd had earlier with her idiot fiance. The idiot fiance who was now gone, according to her. Despite being in her home, she'd looked strangely subdued; her modest living conditions were clearly affecting her usual confidence, even though Rhys hadn't said anything. Despite being a vain woman, she hadn't bothered to shield herself with heels or makeup, instead receiving him in an old t-shirt and sweatpants.

A part of him had taken a look at her face and hoped that the magic would be broken, that seeing her without the mask of the beautiful, daring girl he knew would weaken the grasp she had on his heart. It didn't. If anything, he was now craving to hold her and say that there was nothing to be ashamed of. He wanted to make her smile. He wanted to be the reason she smiled.

All her sorrow seemed to have been momentarily forgotten when her eyes fell on the cane, though. That embarrassed, weak woman who seemed like she wanted nothing more than to disappear into her own shame was now brandishing her new toy.

“I've always thought I couldn't make much damage on this side of things,” she'd told him, making the cane cut through the air. “A good tool makes all the difference, doesn't it?”

She was someone else with that cane in her hand. A powerful woman who'd let no one shame her in her own home. A beauty. A fucking goddess. She'd never looked as fascinating to him as she did right now.

And he had just thrown all restraints to the wind and asked her to use that cane on him.

Rhys didn't know just how much the possibility enticed him until she made him say it, loud and clear, demanding his honesty like an offering. Belle had asked for much worse looking straight into his eyes but he'd barely managed to get the words out, standing awkwardly in her tiny living room and listening to his own voice as the request slipped away from him.

The words felt like a language he'd never learned to speak properly, but they tasted warm on his tongue, like shame. The moment they were out of his mouth, Rhys was filled with a sense of freedom and it was exhilarating, as though he'd just let go of a weight he'd been forced to carry around without knowing. He didn't know what to do with this newfound lightness but he was glad to put it into Belle's hands.

The look on Belle's face as he spoke, that alone was worth all of this bravery. He could tell that she was overwhelmed by his request but also aroused by it, and there was such severity in her eyes... he'd never seen it before and it was turning him to puddle. She was expecting him to be obedient and to come closer.

So he did.

Rhys heard the sound of his own cane tap the floor once as he took a step forward and that soft sound was enough to remind him of what Belle was seeing in that moment: a man who was much older than her, who walked with a limp and, when compared to the man she'd been engaged to five minutes ago, wasn't much to look at. Still, Belle gazed at him through her blue eyes with something akin to adoration, as if he too were a fascinating thing that had captured her eye and her heart.

She held the black cane in her hands on both ends, trying its flexibility. Before he had the chance to think this through, she let go of the tip and used it to stroke his left thigh. He did his best not to look uneasy – Belle always did, a little, but she looked beautiful when she was nervous while he didn't.

“Have you done this before?” she asked, apprehension on her face even though her cane continued to stroke him.

Rhys made sure he could speak clearly before opening his mouth. “I haven't.”

“You're putting your fate in the hands of someone who doesn't know what she's doing.”

“So did you. You won't hurt me.”

Belle smirked. “Not too much.”

His heart fluttered. He'd never thought much of pain, he didn't see the appeal of bruises, stripes and welts, of being hit until you cried and your entire being was reduced to that intense sensation. However, something about Belle made the whole thing rather appealing. It wasn't the pain in itself that had brought him here and made him confess something so intimate, it was the chance of being under this beautiful woman's thumb and handing himself over to her mercy. Of proving his devotion to this goddess through his endurance.

Belle already had a firm grip on his heart, it was only fair that Rhys offered her the rest of him.

“Not too much,” he agreed, his mouth suddenly dry.

Belle tapped him twice with the cane, just to tease him.

Rhys had tested the material against his palm and the back of his hand, experimenting the smoothness of it, feeling the sting on his hand, but this was so much better. In someone else's hands, it felt like a threat, one he'd invited on himself.

“Lean over the table for me,” she said.

Rhys was glad to break eye contact and hide the redness of his face from her. He rested his hands on her little dinner table for two. Belle moved from his right to his left in muffled, slow steps, feeling much like a predator to him.

“You can undress, if you'd like,” she said, very gentle.

Rhys was ready to say he'd rather not and stick to the safety of his suit, but changed his mind. He shrugged off his jacket and folded over one of the two chairs. Then, in a bout of courage, he undid his belt and pushed his pants down to his ankles.

Right behind him, he could hear Belle's breath getting caught in her throat.

“You're being so brave for me,” she said, sweet and impressed. “Anything else?”

“I think I'm good,” he said.

The thought of being naked in the middle of her apartment was disconcerting, though this middle ground was a strange and new form of vulnerability. Women usually saw him wearing a suit or nothing at all. He could feel himself tense with humiliation and wanted to put on his suit again, like a man in need of armor – just as much as he wanted to stand where he was and let this little woman stare at him in this deprecating state. More than that, he wanted her to be in charge of such deprecation. To debase himself for her pleasure was, in his eyes, acceptable, perhaps even desirable.

Her tiny hand rubbed up his left shoulder and then gripped it.

“I do enjoy the view,” Belle said, her voice low. Rhys didn't know what to say to that. “You'll have to tell me how to do this.”

“I think it's pretty self-explanatory.”

She giggled sweetly. The cane gave him the slightest tap across his ass. Even though it caused him no pain whatsoever, he still jolted. He could tell that the fabric of his underwear wouldn't shield him from this.

“Funny guy,” Belle said. “Go on, you said you'd help me.”

“Stand a little more to my left.”

He saw her come into his peripheral vision, her feet bare on the floor and her jogging pants a light-pink blur.

“You're going to aim with the end of it,” he said, repeating words that had been explained to him a thousand times before, in Jefferson's practical tone, or Mal's sultry voice.

The end of the cane slid up his thighs and to the curve of his ass.

“Like this?” Belle asked.

“Just a little- here.”

He took the tip of the cane in his hand and lowered it to the right position.

“Try not to stray too much,” he said. “I think you have a better threshold than I do.”

“You think?”

“This is new.”

Rhys felt her hand smoothing up and down his spine.

“I'm happy you trust me to do this,” she said.

“I might not last long,” he said.

“I still think you're brave for trying.”

Her hand started pulling him down, her pressure only a suggestion but Rhys gave in to it nonetheless. He lowered himself on the table, palms and elbows flat on the surface. She pulled his shirt up to better expose his backside, then settled her hand on his lower back.

Belle had called him brave but, in the moment that took her to start, Rhys didn't feel brave at all. He feared what was about to happen. More than the pain itself, he didn't want to appear weak in front of her or call it quits after the first stroke. She would think him weak and cowardly if he didn't at least make an effort.

However, once the cane came down on his backside, he felt his entire body relaxing. It hit him squarely on both cheeks with a muffled sound, barely a strike at all. An experimentation, rather, to see if he'd scare easily. He didn't. In fact, it'd made him curious.

“You can do it a little harder,” he said, giving her permission.

The next time Belle hit him, she made it hurt. Rhys didn't know whether she was actually a strong woman and her size had fooled him or his craftsmanship was as good as everyone had told him it was, it didn't matter. He felt the sting, acute and warm, and it wasn't nearly as bad as he feared it might be. Rather, it was... interesting. Certainly bearable.

And then came her fingers, running through his hair, soothing him, worrying. It was such a beautiful contrast. She could whip him raw if she followed each stroke with a caress.

“How are you doing?” Belle asked. He wondered if it was hard for her to hold back, if she wanted nothing more than to play with her new toy – whether that meant the cane of Rhys himself, he didn't know and he didn't care.

“You're stronger than you look,” he said. “Do it again.”

Belle went back to rubbing his lower back.

“You want one more, my darling?” she asked, her voice a purr.

“I do.” After a moment, he added, “Please.”

Down came the cane again. It cut through the air with a whisper and, this time, the pain made him flinch.

Without warning, she did it again.

And then a third time, squeezing the tiniest sound out of his lungs. Still, he managed to stay in place and breathe through the pain.

“Look how well you're taking this,” Belle said, full of pride.

Rhys panted softly, feeling his heart swell at her words. It had only been five strokes but it was good to know that he pleased her.

The next one made him claw the table and hold back a whining sound. Against all logic, he heard the word “Again...” slipping through his lips.

Belle was more than happy to oblige once, and then twice, before giving him a moment to breathe. The sound of the cane, Rhys thought, was just as much a part of the game as everything else. It was a warning just as much as a threat. Once they traded places, he was going to experiment with that, make that thing cut through the air and watch Belle squirm in anticipation, just to pull back at the last minute. Would she be relieved or frustrated? How would _he_ feel?

Belle's fingers brushed on the back of his neck and Rhys hummed with pleasure.

“I think I found a sweet spot,” she said, gleefully.

Rhys smiled breathlessly at the table. She was making him hard, and he couldn't point to exactly which part of this was turning him on, the touching, the pain, the authority with which she spoke and that was peppered in sweetness... Maybe it was the knowledge that, in this moment, he belonged to her more than he'd ever belonged to anyone.

“It's two more for ten,” Belle said, suggestive.

Rhys tapped the Formica, thinking.

“It's four more for twelve,” he said.

By the tone in her voice, Belle was delighted, “You're so good, my darling.”

She put on a little more strength on the next stroke. His hand came to cover the bruised area instinctively, but she grabbed his wrist and pinned it to his back. There was a moment where he could've protested but he didn't, instead lowering his torso onto the table, happily subdued.

She marked number ten with a painful sting that made him flinch. Inside his underwear, his cock twitched as though it didn't mind this abuse at all.

Belle finished the last two in a quick succession that took his breath away.

“There,” she said. “That's twelve.”

Rhys took a deep breath, feeling the pain settle and dull.

“I think you took this well,” Belle said, one hand still pinning his arm to his back.

She placed the cane beside him on the table. Rhys looked at it and smiled. Despite his infatuation with Belle, part of him was glad to see that people had been right all along. He was a genius. That cane was perfect.

“How was it?” he asked.

“Shouldn't I be asking you this question?”

“I meant the cane. Was it easy to handle?”

“Are you _working,_ Mr. Gold?” she asked, feigning offense.

“I'm always working. Though this was, by far, the best work I've done in a while.”

He felt her leaning closer. Her nails scratched the inside of his thigh, from his knee up.

“Maybe I should see the results, then?” she asked. “For better feedback.”

Rhys shivered. Without thinking, he pulled his underwear down just enough to show her the stripes she'd left on his ass. He had no idea what they looked like but Belle seemed pleased because she said, “These are beautiful.” She touched them very lightly, igniting a warm sensation that wasn't at all unpleasant. “Did you enjoy it, my darling?”

He was her darling...

He belonged to her...

“I did,” Rhys said. “More than I thought I would.”

He heard the sound of her tongue wetting her lips.

Then, “Are you hard?”

That question alone sent a jolt of pleasure through his body.

He answered, “Yes.”

Belle was quiet for a moment, as if deciding what to do with that information. She let go of his arm and leaned even closer, so that he could feel her breath against his ear. Her chestnut hair shielded his vision for a moment but was quickly tucked behind her ear.

“Close your eyes,” she said. “You can't look at me.”

Rhys wanted to ask why but didn't. Awkwardly, his right hand found its way between his legs and held his erection firmly over the fabric of his underwear.

Belle straightened her back and Rhys was about to ask her to stay when she said, “Keep your eyes closed. I'm right here.” She stood right behind him, he could feel her sweatpants against the back of his thighs.

Without thinking, he began to stroke.

“That's it, my darling,” Belle said, breathless, as she caressed the marks she'd left on his skin. “No rush. Do what feels good for you.”

No rush... Rhys would've loved to stay here all night, to continue to stroke himself harder and harder, until Belle lifted whatever ban they might have had and touched him herself. But he could tell he wasn't going to last long. Everything was too much, her touch, her smell, her fucking _authority_. He loved every bit of it. Of her.

He was never going to let her go again.

“Keep going, my darling,” Belle said, as his hand picked up some pace. “I want to see you come.”

Rhys tried to say something, anything, just to let her know that she made him happy. That he was thankful to be here, under her thumb and following her orders. He couldn't remember how to form words, though. All he knew was her, and her beautiful legs, and the sound of her voice, and the sting of her cane-

He came into his hand, his orgasm harder than anything he'd managed with only the memory of her to entice his imagination. In the quietness that followed, Belle leaned over and gave the back of his head a kiss.

“Did that feel good, my darling?”

Rhys said, “Yes...” but the sentence felt incomplete. Maybe they should've discussed a proper title for her before they started. He'd gladly call her Mistress, like in a tacky pornographic movie. Or Miss Belle. Anything.

Very slowly, her little apartment came into focus. Belle was now playing gently with his hair.

“Do you need help to get dressed?” she asked.

Rhys hummed. “Can't I just stay here?”

“On my table?” she giggled. “People might notice, though I think you make for quite a centerpiece. Especially with these stripes.”

He'd have to check those out in a mirror, he'd just decided.

“Take your time. I'm going to make us a cuppa, yes?”

“M'kay,” he said, feeling lazy and relaxed.

As soon as she stepped away, the appeal of staying on her table disappeared and Rhys set himself into motion. He put his clothes back to order and used his handkerchief to wipe his hand and the few droplets he'd left on Belle's floor. After that, he went into her minuscule bathroom to properly clean himself and splash cold water on his face. His reflection on the mirror was smiling.

Belle had his back to him when he came into the kitchen. She'd tied her hair into a bun and was staring at the kettle, waiting for the water to boil. Feeling bold, Rhys wrapped his arms around her waist and planted a kiss on the base of her neck.

“Rhys...” she sighed, a soft admonishing there that he didn't hear.

“Maybe I can return the favor next,” he said. “I could be the one watching next, and you could be the one on the table.”

Belle shivered. “You shouldn't say that.”

“Why not? We're both single. Finally, if I may add. I don't see why we-”

Belle turned around so fast Rhys went quiet. Something was wrong. The look in her eyes was verging on panic. Even before she said, sorrowfully, “What? Rhys, I didn't break up the engagement,” he knew his heart would be irreparably broken.

 


	22. Wounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An overdue fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been alternating POV from chapter to chapter, but this one is a mixture of Rhys and Belle's. I've tried to make it as clear as possible.

The absolute silence that followed that statement killed any words that Belle might have been thinking of saying. Rhys had never looked at her like this before and it was making her uncomfortable. He'd always been a confident man, in control of his thoughts and emotions, and he had no trouble hiding them from the rest of the world. He was a mystery and Belle had always loved a good mystery. It had drawn her to him. Add that to the job he had and Belle couldn't help but jump head first into a bad decision.

Right now, she was wondering if giving in to her curiosity had been worth it because Rhys didn't look confident anymore. He looked forlorn, like the walls in her little kitchen were closing in on him. Whatever emotions he'd been so skilled at hiding before, they were surfacing now against his will and it was because of _her_. Belle had done this to him.

Before Belle had the chance to decipher what was going on or even ask him, Rhys turned around. He did it so fast and unexpectedly that it startled her. She called his name, not knowing what to do or say to make him stay and talk to her. Maybe he wanted to be alone and following him to the street would only make things worse, or maybe he desperately needed her help right now. Come to think of it, she owed him an apology. She should've been clearer about the status of her relationship. Actually, what she should've done was talk to him, instead of becoming enthralled by her new toy and forgetting all the promises she'd made to herself just a few hours before.

The door slammed.

Belle leaned against the counter, feeling like a coward for not knowing what to do. Later, she'd have to call him and try to fix things but she wasn't holding her breath. Rhys was probably going to ignore her calls from now on, thus bringing a horrible end to something that had never been right to begin with. He deserved better than to-

The door slammed again.

Suddenly, Rhys was standing in front of her, as though he'd reappeared by magic. It hadn't been thirty seconds since he'd left but when he asked “Why?” he didn't sound miserable anymore.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked.

“Why?” he repeated, managing to make that word sound even more indignant than before. “Why won't you break up with him?”

Belle's reaction was to stare at him, her entire body freezing on the spot. The question didn't surprise her – in fact it was long overdue – but the fact that he was _demanding_ the answer did.

Rhys knew that he'd gotten her cornered, he could tell by her body language and it pleased him. There was a viciousness in his head that hadn't been there a moment before and perhaps the wise thing to do was to go with his first instinct and leave before he said something he regretted. However, as soon as he'd slammed the door behind him, Rhys realized that he didn't want to be the rational one anymore. He didn't want to go home and wallow on his broken heart any more than he already had.

Who had decided that Belle got to have a free pass on this? Who had decided that he should give her what she wanted and then retire to his home to mourn the loss of her while she carried on with her life? Who had decided that he was to be the strong one, the comforting one, the one who said “you're not a horrible person” and was always available for her? Who had decided all of that?

He knew the answer, of course: Belle. She had come into his shop for a bit of fun and she'd kept on coming, consequence-free and oblivious to his needs. She was probably hoping that he'd do the right thing and leave her be now that playtime was over.

Well, she had another thing coming.

“Rhys, this isn't the moment-” Belle tried.

“No, it's exactly the right moment,” Rhys cut in, stepping further into the kitchen and standing inches away from her in the tiny space. “Because this has never made any sense to me, and if this is what you want, then at the very least you should tell me why.”

Belle still didn't know what to say to that. She mouthed empty words though she didn't emit a single sound. Finally, she started saying, “The reason I'm with him doesn't matter-” but Rhys didn't give her the chance to deflect the question.

“It matters a lot. Yesterday, you sounded ready to rip him a new one, and you're not even wearing your engagement ring, don't think that I didn't check when I came in.”

Belle held her naked finger, as though realizing the lack of the ring for the first time. She'd taken it off at the height of her argument with Gaston and put it on her bookshelf, unsure whether she was ever going to put it back on. It was still there, between her books, and it hadn't occurred to her until that moment that she'd have to start wearing it again.

“You both clearly had a serious row before I got in,” Rhys said. “Yet, you say nothing's changed.”

“But why does it matter why I'm with him?” Belle asked, truly at a loss. “I've always been engaged, from the day you met me to the first time you touched me. It's never mattered to you, why does it matter now?”

“Because, if you are going to tell me your engagement is over-”

Belle immediately shout out, “Whoa whoa whoa! Slow down!”

Rhys didn't listen to her. “Then you should've been honest with me before I came in.”

“I have _always_ been honest with you,” she said, straightening her back. Rhys wasn't a tall man but he still stood at least a head above her now that she didn't have her heels on. That didn't seem to intimidate her at all.

“Not tonight, you weren't,” he said.

“ _Yes_ , tonight,” she insisted, all of her confusion vanishing in the blink of an eye to give way to anger. “I never told you my engagement was over, that would've been a lie.”

“You lie plenty.”

There was a knee-jerk reaction itching to get out, angry and childish, but Belle pushed it down until her temper was under control. When she spoke, her voice was sincere, “I lie plenty, yes, but I've never lied to you. In fact, I'm more honest with you than with anyone else.”

Rhys huffed and took a step back, only to find a wall blocking his escape. Belle's apartment was suffocating, these tiny rooms that left no space for them to be away from each other. The proximity, which had seemed like an advantage a minute ago, was starting to make him feel uncomfortable. He didn't want to be anywhere near her right now but the hell he was about to leave when she was gaining the upper hand.

“At what point did I tell you we broke up?” Belle said, before Rhys had the chance to monopolize the fight again.

“I asked about your fiance and you said Gaston was gone,” Rhys told her. “Those were your exact words, 'he's gone'. What, did you mean it literally? He was gone _from your apartment_?”

“Can you see him in my apartment?”

Rhys glowered at her.

“Then I guess I meant it literally,” she said. “You asked me about him and I said he'd left, which he'd just done.”

“You knew what you were saying-”

“Yes! I knew what I was saying!” she all but shouted. Her vocal chords, which had done afair amount of screaming the night before, felt ready to bleed but she didn't stop. “That my fiance had just left and that was why I was calling you. I thought we should have a serious conversation about this, but you kept _pushing_ for the stupid costume-”

“I wasn't pushing for the costume!” Rhys shouted back. “I suggested the costume and, as always, you jumped on board without thinking it through!”

Belle gaped at him. “That is- that- I don't even know what to say to that!”

He needed space to breathe, the kitchen was suffocating. He limped into her living room but Belle followed him closely, fearing he might bolt for the door again. Rhys marched to the cardboard box bookshelf and made a point at not looking at her dinner table. On the shelf, her engagement ring blinked at him, an offense just as much as a mockery.

“I act without thinking?” Belle repeated, grabbing his arm to make him look at her. “Since when? No, you tell me-”

“Do _not_ touch me!” Rhys snapped, pulling away from her hand. “I've had enough of that!”

“We sat down together!” she said, having let go of him but refusing to stop. “When _you_ came up with this proposition, I might add, we talked and I told you what this was. I was very transparent.”

“Transparent is not the word I would use.”

“Then maybe you don't remember what I said, or you're forgetting it on purpose.”

Rhys threw a glare in her direction.

Belle shrugged, taking a step back. The living room allowed for a little more space in between them but not much.

“Which one is it?” she asked. “I can remind you if you'd like. I said we weren't going to have sex and that we couldn't have feelings involved.”

Rhys decided it was wiser to remain silent. Yes, those had been her words and perhaps they were clear but, looking back, they didn't seem _enough_.

“Well then?” Belle insisted. “Was that clear or not?”

“It's not the point-”

“It is _the point_ , you've _made it_ the point. And then you said, and I quote, 'I don't expect you to leave your fiance'.”

Rhys opened his mouth to argue but couldn't. His memory was just as good as Belle's and he remembered what he'd told her, months ago. She'd quoted him word-for-word.

When he spoke again, his voice was low but no less acid.

“You never told me what you wanted.”

“I was very clear-”

“No,” Rhys interrupted. “No, you said no sex, no feelings. But what did you want from me, Belle?”

Just like before, his question seemed to have caught her off guard.

“Is this a game to you?” Rhys said, throwing the suggestion in her face. “An outlet for all the good sex you're clearly not getting at home? Or do you just like it as a reminder of how _good_ you are, how very faithful, all those times you could've fucked someone else but didn't because you have so much self-control?”

Belle stared at him.

Then, “Well, aren't you an asshole?”

Rhys didn't apologize. He couldn't even find it in his heart to feel guilty.

“If you cared so much about what I want, maybe you should've asked me this before,” she said.

“Lord knows when!” Rhys snapped. “As soon as the fun part is over, you can't wait to leave.”

“I can't wait to leave?” she repeated, advancing into the room again. “ _I can't wait to leave_? I feel guilty, Rhys! If I leave fast it's because I don't want to dump my feelings over cheating on Gaston with you!”

“Gaston is a moron! No wonder you're cheating on him-”

“He was there for me when I needed him. You're only there for me when I need a spanking.”

“That's not fair!”

Belle shook her head. She knew it wasn't fair, he'd never meant the same to her as Gaston had, they didn't have the same history. She'd never actively sought Rhys out as a friend. He was the distraction, the flirt. Any other conversations they might have had – his son, her dreams as a young girl, her sexuality – happened tangentially. He had never offered to be her confidant and, if he had, Belle would've said no.

This thing that they had, it was fun and she needed it. Some days, it was all she had to look forward to. But it wasn't a relationship.

“I asked you to pull back if there were ever feelings involved,” Belle said, quietly. Her throat and her head were throbbing. “You should've done that.”

“God forbid my feelings for you get in the way of your wedding,” Rhys told her, much in the same tone.

Belle stored that fact (“He has feelings for me.”) in the same place where she stored all the other inconvenient truths that she didn't want to deal with. It was shoved somewhere between “I hate my job” and “Picking a date for the wedding was a mistake”. This wasn't the kind of thing she should be focused on, it wasn't going to make her life any better.

Out loud, she said, “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“I had every intention to go through with the wedding and I could never reciprocate your feelings, whatever they were.”

Her words didn't hurt. Rhys had always known this was where he was going to end up. Just like Belle's chair and Belle's teacup, Belle's _fool_ was supposed to retire back to the backroom of his shop and stop making such a fuss.

“It's easy for you to go do this sort of thing with just anyone who'd ask,” he said, not as vitriolic as before but still refusing to come close to her. “But it isn't easy for me. I don't humiliate myself like I just did for anyone.”

Belle looked at him.

“I don't just do this with anyone either, you know it,” she said. “I trust you. You-” She bit her tongue. This wasn't the moment to say it but the truth came out anyway. “You _matter_ to me, Rhys. Don't think that you don't.”

“If I did, the engagement would be off,” he said.

Belle stood in front of him. Whatever it was that she'd hoped to hear, it wasn't that.

“You're right, maybe you don't matter,” she said. “Maybe I'm just some heartless bitch.”

“You sure know how to act like one,” Rhys said, though she wasn't looking at him anymore. She'd opened the front door. “Am I being kicked out?”

“You're being asked to leave,” she corrected him, still refusing to look him in the eye. “This is all my fault, I was the one to start it and I'm sorry. But I'm putting an end to it now.”

“Good,” Rhys said, without missing a beat. “This whole thing was a terrible mistake.”

Rhys limped out of the room without giving her as much as a glance. If he felt the urge to apologize, he didn't listen to it.

Belle locked the door behind him and listened to the sound of his cane as it died down the corridor, leaving nothing but a heavy silence behind.

Just as Rhys drove away in his car, Belle found her wedding ring on the shelf and put it back on, each thinking that life would now go back to normal and that the sorrow and disappointment they felt would eventually fade away.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> maddiebonanafana (tumblr.com) beta this work for me.
> 
> This is a fill for this prompt: http://rumbelleprompts.tumblr.com/post/119921364950/rumbelle-prompt
> 
> If you want a reference for the rose, here you go: http://shop.bdsmgeek.com/collections/dildos/products/pyrex-glass-rose-wand


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